


A new day to see

by Teland



Series: A New World [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Backstory, Biting, Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Dogboys & Doggirls, F/M, Families of Choice, Feral Behavior, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, POV Character of Color, Parent/Child Incest, Polyamory, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Prostitution, Rimming, Romance, Rough Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Telepathy, Threesome - M/M/M, teaching kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 18:24:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 69,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5344052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"*Porthos*. I have begun to almost regret that your father did *not* buy me as your pleasure-slave!" </p><p>Porthos *grunts* — </p><p>And then remembers — </p><p>"Wait, there's one more thing —" </p><p>"What could it *be*? Have you a cock that is ten inches long despite your tender years? I forgive you! I promise! Punish me with it nightly!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Porthos has always been theirs.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naughtypixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naughtypixie/gifts), [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: Not a single blessed thing. Takes place in an AU-ized pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: This is about *three* of Pixie's bunnies mashed into a big, sugary-pervy paste. Fuckin' A, I love playing in her mind. It's my intention that *this* story be part one of a loosely-connected universe of stories featuring an alternate view of how the boys all get together. Wish me luck, please!
> 
> Also, *absolutely* consider this a late submission for No-Shame November — and consider *that* a warning. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Could not have been done without the audiencing, encouragement, feedback, typo-catching, hand-holding, medication reminders, and unbelievable *tolerance* in the face of an author who kept passing out mid-sex-scene of Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Greyandgold, and, of course, my Jack. *Thank you*.

Porthos was theirs from the start. 

Those are words Treville and his brothers have told themselves — and others — in a lot of different ways over the years. 

Cheerfully and teasingly to Amina — their sister in all but blood — when she felt guilty for 'making' Treville adopt her son by another man — as if that was ever anything she'd have to ask him to do — 

As if that was ever anything but what he'd *wanted* — 

("You named him after *us*, Amina-love." 

"Oh — *Treville*." 

"You know you did." 

"Yes, but — it wasn't meant — Belgard was supposed to — and I can *get* a *job* —" 

"You can. Or you can stay with me —" 

"And do what? Be *your* wife?") 

And they'd looked at each other for long moments. They'd — 

The conversation was over fifteen *years* ago, but Treville still remembers the scents of the oils Amina used to keep her hair soft, and the way the sunlight through the window in his library — meager and military-focused, then — had brought out the mahogany in her skin and *incredulous* eyes. 

It had been pure, blind luck that Henri had called off their Spanish incursion early, that all of them had gotten *home* early — and early enough that they could *be* there in time to *catch* Belgard plotting to take Amina's and Porthos's lives. 

Laurent and Treville had dragged Belgard's would-be assassin to the pathetic little man, himself, and Treville had *dispatched* the raving madman *him*self — on Belgard's rugs. 

Treville had let Laurent handle the making of threats — he always could be extra proper about that sort of thing — and that had been that. 

Except that Amina and Porthos had no official patron, and that...

That was hard for a former slave with no husband and an infant. 

Harder in Paris than in some other places. 

Amina had already made noises — serious noises — about setting up in the countryside, and that would be — 

That would be too much. 

If not for Amina, then for Treville, and for the three old witches who loved Amina just as much as Treville did, and who had made it possible for Treville to do things like be just a little bit *aware* when his Amina-love and her little boy were in danger. 

Or a lot aware, and more than that, as the case may be. 

So, on that day, Amina's incredulous gaze had gotten much softer — 

("Jean-Armand..." 

"I *hate* that —" 

"It makes you listen, though.") 

And she'd sat right down in the windowseat and started arranging her complicated — to Treville, anyway, and really, all women's clothes were — wrap-dress so that she could nurse Porthos even before he started fussing. 

Beloveds of witches could do that. 

He'd crouched near her and waited to see if he could be of assistance, if the strong and perfect babe would cry, if he would need his soft curls petted — 

(As far as Treville was concerned, this was always the case.) 

But — 

("What am I listening to?" 

"I still want a *real* husband, Treville. I — a man, for the woman in me, I mean, not only a brother. Not that there's any such thing as *only* a brother —" 

"I would never stand in your way —" 

"And when your wife gave birth to a blue-black babe? What then?") 

Treville had nodded toward Porthos — 

("He was born with skin like ivory. Now...") 

He'd shrugged. 

("No one knows how these things work. How the *look* of a babe works. And I daresay Ife might have some ideas on this score. Meanwhile, I would raise any babe of yours as my own — if you let me — and I *promise* you that they'd have the best of everything —" 

"Stop — stop." 

"Amina —" 

"*Treville*. I — I know you want to give me a place of honour in your home. I know you want it to be the place of *greatest* honour —" 

"*Please* —" 

"If... if something happens to me —" 

"Don't talk like that —" 

"You will take my children, *all* of my children, and you will make them *yours*. You will *do* that." 

"Of *course* —" 

"But I will never be your wife.") 

And Treville had closed his mouth — 

And swallowed — 

And nodded. 

Neither of them truly had the gift of prophecy, but there had been a moment, a darkness like clouds passing over the sun. 

Amina had laughed and rocked Porthos gently as he suckled. 

("Why do I think I doomed us both, hm?" 

"Amina —" 

"No, no, not that. My brave, strong brother will take care of me the way he always does —" 

"And my brave, strong sister will take care of *me* the way *she* always does —") 

And Amina had taken a deep, shuddering breath and beckoned him up to join her on the windowseat, and had taught him a song to sing to Porthos if he were ever sad, and lonely for her. 

They'd both pretended she was just telling him more about where she was from, and how she'd grown up, and what it had been like to be thrown together with slaves from other tribes, whole other *cultures*, who spoke entirely other *languages*. 

They'd pretended she wasn't preparing for a mortality she felt much more strongly, then. 

But.

The boy had always been theirs, *Porthos* had been theirs, and — 

And even now, so many years after Amina's death — 

So many years she'd spent as a de Treville *retainer*, safe in his manor, warm in his manor, far away from the teahouse where she'd turned Reynard and Kitos down a dozen times each before they'd lured Treville in with them in a hopeless and *odd* attempt to make them *look* better — 

And she'd had the brightest eyes, and the boldest laugh, and she'd seen *right* away that Treville had wanted to be the one to go home with Kitos and Reynard, with his brothers, his beautiful, mad, *filthy* brothers — 

She'd seen it, and teased with *gentle* raucousness — 

And let Treville walk her home. 

Where they'd talked, about love and loss and the stupidity of men — including him — over *her* tea, which was spicy and refreshing and kept him going until it was time for him to get his arse to the garrison. 

And so he'd gone back to the tea house. 

And gone back *without* Reynard and Kitos. 

And gone to her rooms for food so spicy it made him turn red and weep and beg for more all in one panted dragon's breath — 

And he'd taught her all the court dances — 

And she'd — tried to — teach him *her* dances — 

And, one night, while he was over to her rooms, Kitos and Reynard had appeared, scrubbed to their finest polish, and had stayed on their best behaviour the whole night, because — they knew — 

("There had to be *some* woman you wanted to spend time around, Fearless."

"Ah, oui, oui. I confess; I was about to give up on this, but notre frère, he told me to retain hope,") Reynard had said, and winked — 

And Treville had said not one word about the extra spicy stuff being ground up special for his plate — 

And Amina had asked about Kitos's and Reynard's names, and the other Musketeer names she had heard, and the traditions behind them — 

And they had told her. 

How it would've been a scandal for Treville not to keep his name, because he was gentry, but for the other men, the act of taking new names was just as important, in some ways, as vowing allegiance to the Crown and regiment. That, in some ways, it was doing the same thing. 

("When I said I was Kitos, not Honoré any longer, I was saying that I was his brother, and his brother over there, and the brother of all those other blokes. I was saying that I'd never let them down, and that I'd always be there for them, even while I was saying, aloud, that I'd always serve my King and country.") 

And Amina had looked at Treville shrewdly for a long, heavy moment — 

("I will remember this.") 

And Treville had been the only other person in the room when Amina had named Porthos — 

("Oh. I. I like..." 

"He'll be yours, one day, I think...") 

And Amina had still been all but delirious from the *ordeal* of childbirth — 

("No — I —" 

"You'll always take care of him, won't you?" 

"YES!") 

And Amina had laughed, tired and worn, as she'd stroked Porthos's sleeping face. 

("The witches, they'd have it no other way —" 

"*I'd* have it no other way —" 

"They told me, once, that they'd planned to make you marry me, make you love me against all inclination —" 

"What — no. I *do* love you. I always bloody have!" 

"I told them that, and I think I made them believe me. I think..." 

"Amina —" 

"They said you'd be my knight..." 

"I am, and that's — there's nothing wrong with —") 

But she'd been sleeping then.

Treville had taken the babe and made him safe. 

He'd gone to the witches, of course, told them that they didn't have to do anything to him, that he'd always *be* there for Amina — 

And they'd looked at each other — 

And the youngest one, Ife, had looked at him. 

("We made you her — and the babe's — *protector*, Treville." 

"I know —" 

"We took your blood, piss, spend, sweat, and tears and we blended them with her own — *and* her milk — and we made you lap it all up like a great, dark hound." 

"I was *there* —") 

And Ife had grunted, and leaned forward, and folded her strong, dark hands on her immaculate kitchen table. 

Treville had taken that for exactly what it was and stood at attention. 

("Treville. You are bound to her, and to her child. They are yours now — more yours than any wife and child could ever be to any *husband* and *father*. We told you this when you made the choice to be her protector, but I think...") 

And Ife had pinned him with a *look* — and then stopped that and laughed ruefully. 

("We of course used the fact that you weren't thinking things through to their logical conclusion, Treville. We had no idea that you would live through the grievous threat I foresaw to their lives, and not much more care for same.") 

Treville had nodded. He'd known he was their tool. 

("But... now you are alive, and of course our Amina is both endlessly grateful for this and endlessly guilt-ridden. She was so proud to *have* you when we said we needed someone *like* you, and now she must live with the fact that she agreed to let you, her dearest friend, be used. 

"That is why you're truly here, is it not? You want to find ways to salve Amina's guilt around you?" 

"*Yes*, Ife —" 

"You are her knight." 

"I'm her bloody best *friend* before that!" 

"Remind her of this. Every chance you get. Because you will always be her knight, and the knight of that beautiful boy, and, thus, you will always remind her of the crime she feels she committed.") 

And that had been good advice, if painful — 

That had — had *fueled* her refusal to marry him — he *knows* it had — 

He'd asked too *soon* — 

Or. 

Maybe not soon enough? 

Long before Porthos, long before Belgard, long before the topic of *knighthood* came up, there was... a night. 

He'd left Kitos and Reynard in a whorehouse that most assuredly did *not* cater to men with his predilections, meaning to wander to a house that did, and, instead, found himself at Amina's tea shop, lonely and unsure and *pathetically* depressed about the lack of love in his life —

Even *more* so when he found himself staring at Amina in a clinch with a fine-looking merchant-type with a look of Spain about him. 

Treville had hung back in the shadows to watch, to — well, to *supervise* in a way Amina would swat him for — 

You couldn't trust merchants *or* Spaniards — 

And, sure enough, this one got rougher than Amina wanted him to. 

Treville had been fast — 

But Amina had been faster, knifing the man in the eye just as neat as you please, just the way he'd taught her, and leaving him to dance his life away on his back on the ground. 

There hadn't even been much *blood*, and that... 

It had been Treville's dreamy sigh that had pulled Amina's attention away from what she'd done. She'd screamed like a terrified child — high and quiet — and Treville had moved to hold her the way Kitos held him when they were both pretending Treville was still too drunk to protest. 

Treville had learned how, from those cuddles, and was finally basically competent enough to calm his Amina-love down. 

("He was — he was —" 

"I know —" 

"But *how*?" 

"I was checking to make sure you were all right —" 

"You were *spying* on me!" 

"That, too —" 

"*Treville* —" 

"Shh. Scold me after we make your problem disappear, mm?") 

And she'd shuddered *hard* — 

*Stiffened* — 

And then relaxed, all over, becoming his strong and capable and perfect Amina-love again. 

("All right?"

"Yes. Where... I... no. No. What do *you* do when you suddenly find yourself with an inconvenient dead body? I *know* this isn't your first, or even your *fifth*." 

"Very true, Amina-love. First things first —") 

And he'd removed the knife, wiped it on the inside of the merchant's coat, and handed it back to her — 

("Nicely done, by the way —" 

"*Thank* you —" 

"And we'll need some bandages for our poor, drunken mate, here."

"Drunken — oh. *Oh*." 

"That's right. He got into a *fight*." 

"I... and he took a blow to the head." 

"A *nasty* knock, Amina-love. Good thing you were there to get him patched up...") 

And that's just what she'd done, bandaging the dead merchant as lovingly and gently as she'd done him when *he'd* been in a scrap, which... 

("Amina... did you like this bloke?" 

"No, I kiss people I *dislike* *all* the time,") she'd said with a withering look. 

("But — you know what I mean —" 

"I will not grieve for him. I will, however, grieve for my ability not to listen to your advice about *sharp* men and *merchants*." 

"It's just that they think they can buy *everything* —" 

"And *no* one can buy *me*. Well, not that cheaply.") 

And then they'd snickered like children as they'd hoisted the merchant between them — 

As they'd walked the streets with his dead weight between them — 

As they'd lied baldly to a drunken Red Guard who was far more interested in brassing off a Musketeer than in actually keeping the *peace* — 

But it'd honestly felt too good to play a game with Amina that he'd formerly only played with his *brothers* — 

Too *right* — 

Amina had thrown her voice, pretending to be the dead merchant — 

("Fush the bloody Musheteers!") 

And it'd been all Treville could do not to drop the man to laugh his *arse* off. 

The Guardsman had laughed so hard he'd puked. 

And waved them off on their way. 

It wasn't hard to find a neighbourhood where their man would be stripped, and his possessions scattered to the four winds in hours, but... 

("We were seen by an authority figure, Amina-love." 

"You — that means something more. What is it?") 

And Treville had nodded to the merchant's face. 

("He's recognizable like this, and of course so are we —" 

"Oh — oh...") 

And then, just like that, Amina had ripped the dirty bandages away, then pulled her little truncheon from her skirts and played merry havoc with the man's face. 

Even then, Treville had told himself that it shouldn't have made things better, that it shouldn't have made her feel more *his* — 

But it had. 

And it was even better when, back at her home, she'd let him silently wash her and her weapons clean, again and again. 

He'd felt — 

He'd *felt*, because he'd *had* this with his brothers, only it was never so reverent, never so —

He'd *felt*, and he'd wanted more, and he'd opened his mouth to say the words: "Amina-love, did you ever think, maybe, we could... marry?" 

But she had yawned hugely — 

And he had patted her smooth, dark skin with the cloth more softly — 

And she had laughed tiredly and said: 

("I think I need my bed now, Treville.") 

And Treville had kissed her temple lightly, he hadn't — 

He'd felt — 

("Would you mind sharing it tonight?")

They *had* had other nights. 

They *had*, and it could be — 

But she'd met his eyes, and perhaps seen something there she hadn't liked — 

Hadn't *wanted* —

She'd smiled ruefully and shaken her head, hugging herself — 

("I'm sorry; I didn't mean to —"

"Hush now, Jean-Armand. My sweet brother.") 

And her smile had been softer, and damp at the eyes. 

Treville had swallowed around an acid *knot* — and nodded. 

("You'd never hurt me —" 

"*Never* —" 

"And you will always take care of me —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"And if I take that to my bed, I will never take anything else.") 

And Treville had blinked and swallowed more — 

And Amina had stood, and pushed him toward his clothes — and the door. 

("We women, we must keep our lowered standards, I think —" 

"*Amina* —" 

"But we must also keep men like you. Always. One day a man will give me a baby, Jean-Armand. And I will raise him to be just. Like. You.") 

And she had chased him away — 

And he had lingered in the alley long enough to make sure she wasn't crying or anything — anything he could *maybe* fix — 

And — 

And she wouldn't have taken his proposal then, either. 

She'd wanted a *real* marriage, and the fact that she'd had nothing to do with the Church didn't mean she had nothing to do with traditional sorts of values. 

She'd wanted a husband who could love her in *every* way, who could touch her with lust as much as reverence, and who could do so *repeatedly*. 

It was never *enough* that they loved each other, and it was *never* enough that Treville would've happily spent every livre he could to bring her the prettiest, most virile men from all over the world to warm her bed if that was what she asked for. 

She'd wanted — 

("I see the way you look at your brothers, Treville. *All* of your brothers.") 

And they'd been curled together in her small bed, stripped down to their smallclothes, and the scarf Amina only wrapped round her hair at *night*. 

There'd been no way to hide the way he'd stiffened. 

There'd been — nothing *to* hide, ultimately. 

("I know you do, Amina-love." 

"I want to love someone like that someday.")

And that — Treville hadn't been able to hold back a snort.

("*Hopelessly*?"

"*Endlessly*. *Passionately*. You *burn* for your brothers, every second of every minute of every *day*. I stand next to you and expect to be scorched!"

"Amina —" 

"I am cold inside, my brother. I do not want to die that way, even if I must die alone.") 

And Treville had heard himself make a *hurt* noise — 

Had heard himself *starting* to say a dozen different things about all the different ways there *were* to be cold inside, and alone — 

How sometimes he was only warm when he *was* with her — 

He'd said all of those words other times, and he even knows, now, that she'd heard them. 

She'd used them to convince the witches to *use* him. 

A cold and lonely and empty man could be *filled* with the fire to protect and care and love — 

Especially if he hungered for just that. 

And it was better, so much better, to be her knight — 

To be her *dog*, because Ife's magic was the earth's, in many ways, and aligned with the earth's children. 

A few canine personality traits became... more. 

Things to hide around people who didn't know. 

More reason to *avoid* people who didn't know. 

More reason to stay close to his Amina, her boy, and, of course, his brothers. 

They'd looked at him differently when they found out about the full extent of his magical knighthood. His magical *binding*. 

They — 

They knew full *well* that it was something only a desperate man would do. 

And they hadn't realized, before then, that their Fearless, their meneur, was so desperate as that. 

("Brother... I don't think I knew you, at all, before this moment.") 

And, coming from Laurent, his eldest brother, his mentor, his *love* — 

That had ached like a stab to the gut. 

That had — 

("Laurent —" 

"No, don't — don't. We didn't give you enough of what you needed." 

"*Laurent* —" 

"*I* didn't give you enough —" 

"Don't *talk* like —" 

"Then tell me it isn't true, brother. Look at me, let me see you, this magical being you've become, and tell me that I've given you precisely what you've needed of me.")

Treville had had enough practice, by then, that only some of the whine had come out. 

He'd stared at the floor. 

("As I thought. Brother —" 

"Don't — I can't have this conversation —" 

"You will give me — all of us — a second chance, brother,") and the hard *snap* of command had been in Laurent's voice — 

His bearing — 

Everything *about* him — 

("You're not the bloody Captain, *yet* —" 

"No. But I am your eldest brother — or was that a lie you simply told *repeatedly*?") 

This time, Treville hadn't been able to keep any of the whine back — 

("*Was* it?" 

"No!" 

"Very well. Brothers owe each other this. You will tell us how we *failed* you, Treville —" 

"No — *no* —" 

"— if only to stop us from doing it *again* —" 

"It isn't bloody — it's not your *fault*! It's not any of your faults that I'm in *love* with you.") 

And Laurent had inhaled sharply — 

And blinked — 

And — he hadn't looked confused. 

Treville had been waiting for it — expecting it so much that he'd all but *painted* it over the *thoughtful* expression on the man's face — but... 

It wasn't there. 

It — 

("Us... and Amina, as well?" 

"Laurent —" 

"*Talk* to me, brother. *Please*.") 

And that, too, had been a command. 

("I... love her differently. I want to *marry* her, but I can't... I don't think I can ever make love to her. Not the right way."

"What... what does that mean...?" 

"Before they made us... parts of each other, I could sometimes... imagine it. *See* it. We would share a bed from time to time, and our scents would mingle, and her skin would be so *soft* against mine... as soft as any *boy's*.") 

Laurent had blushed — 

("I — should I —" 

"Keep going." 

"Are you —" 

"Keep *going*.") 

And Treville had nodded. 

("When I was trying to hide what I was, as a boy, I would go with the other men to whorehouses. I would fuck women. I'm not *incapable*, and the act was never *joyless*." 

"You're damning with faint praise, brother —" 

"I know I am. I know. It's why I... never — no. It's *one* of the reasons why I never offered to make love with her, why I never tried to seduce, why I *tried* to never let her see the moments of desire in my eyes. She's worth more than — than half a man —" 

"You're *not* —" 

"But I think I would've been, like that.") 

And Treville had growled and paced Laurent's grand and empty library and *snapped* at the air — 

("Brother* —" 

"'m different now. I look at *women* differently now. I *see* them differently." 

"*Oh*. You... you feel desire...?" 

"I do. Or the dog in me does. Or... I don't know. The witches say it'd be a mistake to start thinking of myself as *separate* from the dog, and I think they have a point.") 

And Laurent had nodded thoughtfully again, and — 

And Treville had been able to see the idea dawn. To see it *happen* — 

("I still can't have Amina, Laurent." 

"But —" 

"I can't *have* her, because now she's *part* of me — no. No, I'm telling you a lie. That's not the problem, at all. *That* just makes it more — more. I love her so *much*."

"Brother..." 

"I'm her protector. I'm her *knight*. I'm her *vassal*. Those are the words for it in *our* language. There are other words, in other languages, and all of them are bloody stamped on my *soul*. I can *dream* of her — to a point, but then something... then *I* stop me. It's like trying to imagine — imagine *eating* her. It's an *obscenity*. Do you see?" 

And Laurent had blinked rapidly — and nodded. 

("She is... your liege." 

"Yes."

"And her son will be, too?" 

"I — think so? Fuck, Laurent, I just... it feels *good* to have a love so *pure*. It's *always* felt good to love her, but now it feels even better —" 

"And us, brother? How does it feel to love us?") 

And Treville had taken a breath — 

A *deep* breath that had come out on a *rumble* — 

("Brother..."

"It doesn't hurt. It. It finally doesn't hurt.") 

And Laurent had *frowned* — 

Cocked his head to the *side*, and that — 

("Oh, God, Laurent, *that* part confuses you? *That*?" 

"Brother, you've just told me that love ennobles your spirit, that you're *happy* to be in love with Amina, and that you've always *been* happy to — oh.") 

And watching the penny drop — 

Watching the knowledge *strike*... 

("The desire you've felt for Amina has never... injured you.") 

Treville had laughed hard, letting himself fall back against a bookshelf. 

("I've never lain awake all night listening to *her* breathe and berating myself for the dozens of terrible fantasies that began with 'and then I reached over and cupped Honoré's cock.'") 

Laurent had grunted — 

("I've never thought to myself, 'perhaps if I were as lovely and graceful and witty as a fine lady, or at least some dandy, then *I* would be the one Amina gazed down upon tonight as she fucked me hard, perhaps I'd be able to tangle my hands in her long, fiery hair —" 

"Brother —" 

"I've never *once* thought to myself 'my Amina gets distracted so easily by new knowledge, gets *confused* so easily by new *emotions*. Surely there's something I could do or say that would lead to my mouth round her cock and her hands in my hair —'") 

It hadn't, actually, been a surprise when Laurent had kissed him. 

It had been a relief to stop talking — 

It had been pleasure, so much *pleasure* in the heat of him, the sheer muscle and bone and *alive*-ness of him — 

The scents of him — confusion and anger and desire, sadness and need, hunger and *hunger* —

The scents had shocked him, and made him draw back — 

("*Brother* —" 

"You don't — you *don't* —" 

"I told you once that you *must* give us — all of us — another *chance*. Need I tell you again?") 

And Treville had growled and tried — and failed, there was nowhere to *go* — to back away. 

("Tell me what to do! Tell me what I must *do*!") 

And Laurent had been panting, nearly *gasping* — 

Laurent had been flushed and mussed and — 

And sweating — 

And his scents... 

Treville had growled and darted in — 

Laurent had gasped *before* the bite — 

Treville had bitten *gently*, just his throat, his lower throat — 

He'd sucked — 

("Oh — *yes* —")

And then he'd given himself what he really needed — more of Laurent's scents. His *desire*-scents.

More of those wonderful — 

And he'd never *smelled* them on Laurent — not for *anyone*, but especially not for him — 

Treville had nuzzled and sniffed — 

Licked — 

*Gripped* at Laurent's arms when he'd started to pull away — 

("I will *stay*, brother, but — is this what you need? What — what am I *giving* you with this?" 

"Your. *Desire*.") 

Another grunt — 

("Let me give that to you in other *ways*!") 

And Treville had *panted* — 

Had *dragged* his needy tongue over Laurent's wet throat — 

Slowly, slowly — 

("Brother, *please*!")

And then he'd released Laurent and dropped to his knees, and whined, and pleaded with his eyes — 

Laurent had made a *broken* sound — 

Reached out — 

Stroked Treville's face with shaking hands — 

("You've always. You've always been so beautiful...") 

And Treville had *looked* at Laurent for that — 

("You don't believe me. Very well. Perhaps. Perhaps I should simply show you,") he'd said, and opened his trousers — 

His breeches —

*Given* Treville his naked, hard, *dripping* cock — 

Dripping *more* when Treville had stared and licked his lips — 

("Is it. Is it right?") 

And there'd been a moment to wonder how Laurent could ask a *question* like that — 

But then Treville had remembered that Laurent, despite being a thirty-year-old veteran of the French Army *and* a Musketeer, was also a *virgin*. Because he hadn't yet married Marie-Angelique Leandres. 

Because — 

And this was his first time.

This was what he'd *chosen* — 

And Treville hadn't been able to bring himself to ask if he were sure. 

("It's right. It's right, and I need you —" 

"Yes —" 

"I'll *guide* you —" 

"*Please* —" 

"Into my mouth, come on, do it, fill me, give — *MM* — *mmmm*..." 

"Oh, brother — *brother*. So much?") 

And Treville had nodded and *swallowed* Laurent — 

Laurent had *staggered* — 

And Treville had cupped Laurent's lean, strong hips, gripped them hard — 

("You — you must *hold* me, brother —") 

Gripped them hard enough to *bruise* — 

And then Laurent had *growled* and pushed his hands into Treville's hair, mussing it instantly and *yanking* — 

("Like *this*?") 

And there'd been a part of Treville which had actually wanted to *protest*, to point out that he wasn't a *boy* — 

But that part had been silenced by the needy *jerk* of Treville's cock, by the feel of himself leaking in his breeches — 

Aching for more — 

More *force* — 

He'd *nodded* — 

And Laurent had flared his nostrils, panted, and stayed *right* where Treville was holding him — while working Treville's head on his cock. 

Just — 

Just *perfectly*, tugging and pulling — 

Vicious and *slow* — 

He'd been *growling* — 

Treville had started *shaking* — 

("This — this arouses you...")

Treville had nodded as much as he *could* — 

Wondered and *wanted* — 

*Clutched* at Laurent's hips — 

("I *saw* this — I saw you *doing* this... to a boy...") 

Treville had groaned in his *chest*, bucked at nothing — 

("Yes — *yes*, I — I felt the same...") 

And Laurent had shuddered and forced Treville to take him faster, just a little *faster* — 

("The boy looked — looked *beatific* to have your cock in his mouth —") 

Treville had groaned more, *drooled* — 

("Like you, like — oh — *brother*, take me — *take* me —") 

And Treville had nodded and *pulled* on Laurent's hips, urged — 

Laurent had *shouted* — 

Grunted — 

And held Treville still, held him *steady* for two cautious thrusts — 

("I — can't —") 

And then harder thrusts, *rougher* — 

More *violent* — 

Treville had felt his lashes flutter — 

Felt his mind *stop*, slide, *coast* on the dream of this — it had been better than any dream, better than any fantasy. 

It had been the crush of Treville's lips against Laurent, against his dark, thick curls — 

It had been the rich, heavy scents of Laurent all around him when he *did* get to breathe — 

And it had been the rough *slam* of Laurent's cock — 

The nasty-slick *slide* of it over and over and *over* Treville's tongue — 

Laurent's fingers shaking in Treville's hair before he'd gripped hard, before he'd all but *shoved* Treville's head back by the hair — 

Before he'd looked down into Treville's *eyes*, and his eyes were deep, blue, wild, *hot* — 

He'd fucked his way *down* into Treville's mouth, opening Treville's throat with his big, thick cock, leaking down *deep* — 

Laurent had opened his mouth to say *something* — 

Treville hadn't been able to look *away* — 

But all that had come out of Laurent's mouth was a snarl, animal-dark and so *viciously* needy, so *demanding*, so — 

And how *long* had Laurent needed this — just this?

How long had he needed this and just not *known*? 

It had been Treville's *job* as his *brother* to *show* him that need, to help him *serve* it — 

And just the thought of more of this — *more* — 

He'd wanted to touch himself. He'd wanted to toss himself *off*, spend all over Laurent's boots while he was *reaming* Treville's mouth, give him that, too — 

Give him every-bloody-thing — 

Anything he *wanted* — 

Everything he could *take* — 

("Make you — make you *spend*!") 

Treville had released Laurent's hips immediately, starting to reach for his tackle — 

("*No*!") 

And Laurent had looked almost panicked, gripping Treville's hair *painfully* hard just like he couldn't figure out any other way to work his hands — 

("Let *me* make you spend!") 

And Treville had groaned more in his chest, shuddering and bloody *trembling* all over — 

There were so many ways that could go — 

There were so many *possibilities* — 

He'd tried to grip Laurent's hips again and wound up *clawing* him — 

Laurent had *grunted* — 

Bucked — 

And *crushed* Treville's face to his body before *reaming* him, one brutal slam after another after *another*, and Treville had had to work to keep from spending in his breeches, to keep from losing himself — 

Before Laurent wanted him to. 

And that thought hadn't *helped*, that thought had had him clenching around fantasies and swallowing desperately around truth and — 

("You — you were more *gentle* with your boy — I can't —") 

And Treville had *pushed* the knowledge at Laurent, knowing there'd been enough shared blood between them over the years for it to work — he was a boy; I'm *not*. 

And Laurent's knees had *buckled* — 

("I felt — I *heard* — oh, *brother* —") 

Yours!

And Laurent had *shoved* again, slammed in, *snarled* — 

("Which of us is the *animal*?") 

Both of us, please, *both* — 

("Oh — *oh* — *YES*!") 

And Laurent had bent over Treville and fucked him hard, fast, wild, *perfect*, gripping at Treville's *face* with one hand and the bookshelf with the other — 

The *creaking* bookshelf —- 

Treville hadn't been able to do more than *swallow* a few times while that long cock *filled* him — 

Laurent had gasped and *snarled* again every bloody *time*, and — 

("*Mine*.") 

And he'd shoved in and stayed in, cock spasming hard and violently as he spent right down Treville's throat. So perfect. So *hot*, but — 

He'd needed to *taste* — 

Laurent had gasped *raggedly* and *yanked* himself most of the way out — 

Treville had gripped him tighter and pulled him in, *in* — 

Suckled and tasted as he spattered all over Treville's *mouth* — 

("So... so... messy —") 

Perfect — 

("You'll give me this!") 

And the thought of that — 

The *need* in Laurent's voice — 

("Oh. Oh. I'm going to make you spend. Just like this?") 

And Treville had groaned, tried to apologize, tried to explain — 

("*No*.") 

And then Laurent had started fucking him again, fucking into his own spend in Treville's mouth — he hadn't been able to make himself *swallow* — 

Fucking back down into Treville's sore, swollen throat — 

Making Treville throb — 

Groan — 

Spasm and *buck* — 

("Yes, I see...") 

Laurent — 

("Spend for me. Spend just like *this*.") 

And he'd cupped Treville's face with one hand and the back of his neck with the other and — 

Fucked him. 

Slow and hard. 

Slow and — and *viciously* hard, and — 

("Lose yourself. For me.") 

And the world had narrowed to Laurent, to his sweat and musk, to his spend and the scents of his sensitivity and *pain* — 

To the feel of him getting *completely* hard again —

It had felt like being *enfolded* - 

("You don't — you don't know how much I've longed to *hold* you —") 

And Treville had spasmed again, *needed* — 

("You give that to *Kitos*, *only* to Kitos — no. Reynard is allowed to hang all over you, and yet you believe they don't desire you —) 

No — 

("As I desire — you will give us second *chances*. You will give us — but you're entirely correct that now is not the time, now —") 

And Laurent had *growled* — 

("Now is *my* time,") he'd said, and shoved in, and in, and — 

So deep — 

So — 

("I can feel you *wallowing* in this. How do I make it better? How do I make it *perfect*?") 

It — it — 

("Tell me!") 

And so Treville had given Laurent an old and *dear* fantasy — 

Laurent had *gasped* — 

And then there'd been one hand holding his head straight back and one hand cupping and *squeezing* his throat — 

So hard — 

So *hard* even as Laurent kept *fucking* him — 

("Oh — God. I don't want to *curse* in — in — Christian *ways* around you, but I can feel my own *cock* —") 

And Treville had been leaking, needing, jerking and shaking and sweating like a pig, and he just — 

He'd had to *share* — 

He'd had to *give* Laurent his dreams of being his boy — 

Fourteen years old and more of a hanger-on than an actual soldier in the French Army, more of a gangle of violent and undisciplined limbs than a *recruit*, and he'd had Honoré at his side, Honoré before he was Kitos — and they'd both had Laurent as their nanny and instructor and protector and all-round commanding officer. 

And sometimes, when Honoré and Treville got up to tricks, it just *was* the best idea to punish them by separating them. 

And Laurent would take Treville most of those times. 

And Treville would dream of being taken harder. 

Of being put in his *place* — 

("You — you — even *then*?") 

*Always* — 

("Oh — but you were — such a lovely boy — so *intelligent* — I — *I* —") 

And Laurent had growled and *choked* him, hand and cock — 

Started trying to *lift* him by the throat even while he was *fucking* him — 

Even while he was yanking Treville's head back with his other *hand* — 

("I *need* you!") 

I'm yours. 

And Laurent had shaken him like a *puppy* for a moment before giving it to him, giving it to him hard, fast, ruthless and beautiful, and Treville could fall into it, fall all the way — 

And part of him *was* the boy in the handsome and brilliant and fussy older boy's tent — 

Part of him was the boy with watery knees just aching for one slight *push* — 

But the rest of him was already here, everything but *bound* to the floor, finally desired for exactly what he *wanted* to be desired for — 

("Treville — *brother* —") 

And the scents in his nose were perfect — 

And the tastes in his mouth were perfect, intense — 

And everything he could feel, everything he could sense, everything he *knew*, now, about Laurent — 

("*Brother*. *Give* me what I need!") 

Treville had grunted in his stuffed throat and bucked and bucked and — 

("Do it!") And Laurent had squeezed his throat so hard it *hurt* — 

And Treville had felt his body trying to arch, trying to scream, trying to *surrender* as he spent, right in his breeches, right — 

Ah, *fuck*, right there, right there, and Laurent had been *gasping*, wide-eyed and *smiling* — 

He'd done this *right* for his brother — 

("Oh — oh, *Treville* — oh, my beautiful —") 

And Laurent had growled, had cupped both sides of Treville's face, pulled *out* of his throat for a *confusing*, staggering heartbeat — 

("Gasp!") 

Treville had obeyed, spurting even more — and then spurting *more* as Laurent went back to reaming him, caressing and reaming him — 

("I need you, I *need* you, I've been — I didn't know I was *empty* —") 

And Treville had groaned in his chest and given Laurent some of his *countless* fantasies of being bent right *over* by the man — 

Laurent had screamed like an animal and had him, dirty and *mean*, while spending all over his throat and mouth again. 

So good — 

So *good* as he'd molested Treville's face, his throat, his scalp and the back of his neck — 

As he'd shoved in wild and *wilder* — 

("I *love* you!") 

And Treville's cock had jerked in his messy breeches — 

He'd reached to cup Laurent's bollocks and squeeze them, milk them, give himself *more* — 

Laurent had *shouted* — 

*Spattered* the back of Treville's throat with spend — 

Staggered on his *feet* — 

And then stopped, right there, standing still and resting his cock on Treville's tongue — 

Petting Treville — 

Petting him like a dog. 

("Is it wrong...?")

Not while you have your cock in my mouth...

("But at other times?") 

Treville hadn't had an answer for that immediately to hand, which was — 

("Difficult, yes, I see. Perhaps we can experiment?") 

And Treville had moaned, desperately and *obviously* — 

("Have you already lost your taste for sharing with me?") 

Laurent, bless him, had obviously *not* lost his taste for cornering Treville and pressing the tips of conversational rapiers to his throat. 

("Forgive me, my love —")

Treville had grunted —

("— it's only that this approach works so well with you.") 

And... he had not been able to argue with that.

Especially not while on his knees with a cock in his mouth. 

("Hmm. Something tells me that the subordinate position you find yourself in at the moment is troubling to you.") 

...

("It could be the fact that you've been one of the single most insubordinate soldiers I've ever had the questionable fortune to command.") 

... one of the most?

("You don't *reflexively* look for a way around *every* order. Reynard does. Even when it's an order he *wants* to obey.") 

And Treville had remembered Reynard luring him out of the freshly-built Musketeer barracks on their first official night *as* Musketeers — 

Remembered Reynard getting them drunk on wine acquired from fuck only knew where, and kissing his cheeks again and again, and twining their fingers together, and telling him secrets and urging Treville to do the *same* — 

And so Treville had told the secret that wasn't. 

He'd stroked up Reynard's thigh — 

He'd done it again when Reynard had laughed and rolled away — 

He'd gone for a *kiss* — 

And Reynard had rejected him, kindly and sweetly, with a desperate plea that they would still be brothers, frères toujours, just like this, just —- 

("I see, of course, what you mean to show me, brother,") Laurent had said, and stroked Treville's face — 

His hair — 

Seemed to care not one whit for the fact that his cock was still in Treville's *mouth* — 

("I also see that you'd do anything to distract me from the many truths of this particular conversation.") 

Laurent — 

("You need not show me how Kitos rejected you. I already know it hurt you badly, and that it happened when you were boys.") 

Treville had blinked — 

("These things could only have happened early in your relationships with these men, brother. Before they truly knew you, and how much they would come to need everything about you.") 

And that — 

Treville had pulled *back* — 

He'd had to pull against Laurent's *grip* for a moment — 

("So strong — I won't fight you this way.") 

Which, of course, brought to mind still more old *fantasies* — 

And Laurent had made a sound. 

("I won't fight you that way *today*. But there will be other days. Won't there.") 

And Treville had growled and stood, leaning back against the bookshelves — ("Any day. All days."

"Brother..." 

"I *love* you —" 

"I'm not the only one you love.") 

Treville had opened his mouth — 

And Laurent had covered it with his hand. ("I'm not the only one you can have. And I promise to show you that.") 

Treville's stomach had *dropped* — 

He'd shaken his *head* — 

("You can't stop me, brother. Don't try.") 

The ugly truth, of course, had been that Treville *could* stop Laurent, that the same power that had been allowing the two of them to communicate half-silently would allow Treville to make Laurent forget, or at least change his mind for a time. 

Enough time for *Treville* to do — something. 

To improve his camouflage and emotional hiding spots —

("You have never been so ignoble as that,") Laurent had said. 

And, of course, Treville had thought about all of that where Laurent could hear him — 

Be forewarned and forearmed — 

Point more rapiers at his *throat* — 

("*Brother*.") 

And Treville had surrendered, resting his forehead on Laurent's shoulder. ("It will hurt, when I'm right." 

"How fortuitous, then, that you will not be.") 

In his mind, for the little while it had taken for Laurent to *get* to their other brothers and lay what Treville had honestly considered to be obvious information on the table, all that Treville had had were the many, many times when Laurent's *curious* ways of thinking had led him astray with humanity. 

All humanity. 

Seemingly *every time*. 

It had not occurred to Treville that the man could apply his general's eye to matters of the heart. 

It hadn't occurred to Treville that *anyone* could do that. At *all*. 

But, of course, Laurent had always been special, and — 

("Mon ami, mon cher, our Laurent, he says that all this time, I might have had another *chance*!" 

"I —" 

"*Non*. Tell me if it's *true*. Tell me if I can have mon frère the way — the way I always *should* have —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"*Talk*!") 

And he'd had no words, only kisses, and only a *few* kisses before he'd slammed Reynard against the wall and licked his face, his throat, bitten, torn at his clothes, muttered and growled promises, demands, and — 

("I need you. I *need* you!"

"Oui, cher, you can *have* me!") 

He'd had Reynard bent over his own table, bent and taking his *cock*, bent and crying out and *yelling* for every hard thrust, every *vicious* — 

And then Kitos had been there, looking down and down at Treville's handiwork from his wonderfully excessive height — 

("I remember when fox-face told me he wanted this from you — the first time. Good job following up, Fearless.") 

And Treville had growled and rutted in deeper, *deeper*, tried to *shove* his knot *all* the way in — 

("Of course, you had a different cock then. Fuck. Do real dogs' cocks come that big? *Are* you a real dog?") 

Treville had snapped at the air, clawed Reynard's back to make him arch, fucked him *harder* to make him yell so loud, so *sweetly* — 

("Was that supposed to be an answer, Fearless?") 

And Kitos's eyes were sparkling, so dark and nearly hidden between his thick eyebrows and magnificent beard — 

But there'd also been fear in them — 

He couldn't — 

He hadn't been able to — 

("No, no, don't slow *down*, Fearless —" 

"Kitos, you're — you can't be — be *frightened* —"

"We both know that what I'm scared of — *after speaking with Laurent* — has nothing to do with the dog in you.") 

And Treville had grunted and *flexed* — 

Reynard had groaned, low and hungry — 

Treville had flushed to his *belly* — 

("Oh... Fearless,") Kitos had said, and cupped the back of Treville's neck — 

Treville had bucked — 

Rutted in *raggedly* — 

Reynard had sobbed and dropped his *head* to the table, incoherent and so desperate, so *hungry* — 

("Just as. Just as hungry as you, Fearless?") And Kitos had *squeezed* Treville's neck — 

Fuck — bloody — *yes*! And he'd pushed the words even harder, shared with his brothers, given them everything — 

They'd all shared blood before — 

A *dozen* times if once — 

They'd all groaned *together* — 

And then Kitos had *panted*, once, and said: 

("You know, I've been this hungry since an *hour* after you ran off to 'train' the day I rejected you, right?" 

"*Kitos* —" 

"I needed time to *think*. And after that... you never showed me anything but your lust for *other* men. I — fuck, brother, *you're* the fearless one!") 

And there'd been a moment, then, when he could only remember rising, naked and changed, after the rituals, and turning to Ife — 

("This is going to be a challenge to hide." 

"Maybe more challenging than you think, Treville." 

"Mm? What do you mean?" 

"Dogs aren't meant to keep *secrets*. Especially not from the people they love.") 

The memory had cracked something open inside him — 

The memory had made him *need* to share — 

To give every *possible* thing — 

And Kitos had growled and pushed his hand into Treville's hair — 

Kitos had yanked his head up and back for a *kiss* — 

And Reynard had been slamming himself back and back and *back* onto Treville's *cock* — 

And Treville had been groaning into Kitos's mouth and shaking, rutting, clawing Reynard's freckled flanks and *taking* — 

Sucking Kitos's huge, thick tongue and flexing *open* when Kitos had pushed the fingers of his other hand into Treville's cleft — 

And Kitos had grunted — 

And Treville had reached around to *fist* Reynard's cock —

And Kitos had *rubbed* Treville's hole so hot, so dry, so — 

So *hungry* — 

Treville had been shaking on his *feet* — 

*Lapping* into Kitos's kiss — 

Squeezing Reynard's pretty *cock* — 

("Dieu! Ah, Dieu! *Fuck* —") 

And he'd started to spend, spurting all over the table, crying out shamelessly loud and losing himself — 

Beating and clawing at the table — 

Clenching *hard* — 

("*Dieu* — fuck — cher, mon cher, n'arrête *pas*!"

"You heard him, Fearless. Give it to him hard, give it to him —") 

And hearing those words in those voices — 

Feeling their bodies, their *hands* — 

Treville had *howled*, desperate and *loud* — 

("Or do that —" 

"Oui, bien — bien sûr —") 

But he hadn't stopped *fucking* Reynard, hadn't stopped working his throbbing, *pulsing* knot against Reynard's pleasure-button — 

He hadn't been *able* to — 

There'd been no — 

No *options* — 

Not with him there beneath him, peach-skinned and pliant and musky with spend — 

Not with Kitos *teasing* his *hole* — 

("Oh, yeah, Fearless? What if I do... this?") 

And Kitos had started working one massive, spit- and sweat-slick finger *in* — 

*Laurent* hadn't even done that, yet — 

("You must let us *watch* this, meneur,") Reynard had said, panting and moaning and *bracing* himself — 

Taking all of him — 

Taking — 

("Just like you'll take all of me?") 

And Treville had opened his mouth to say *please*, but — 

("Laurent said you loved *force*, Fearless,") Kitos had said, shoving in *hard* with that finger — 

And all Treville had been able to do was howl, howl again, howl as he *worked* himself back and forth between Reynard's arse and Kitos's finger and spent himself *blind* — 

So — 

Every part of him had *ignited* — 

Every part of him had been *needy*, *open* — 

Every part of him had been ready for *use* — 

("I don't know, Fearless, I can think of one part of you which could use some pomade and a bit of stretching...") 

And laughing through a spend wasn't entirely new, but — 

Everything had been new. 

Everything had been bright, special, *right* — 

Even when Treville had lost *all* aplomb and nearly *fallen* on top of Reynard, crushing him to the table — 

Even when Kitos's booming laughter had made him blush like a boy. 

Perhaps especially then, because the laughter had come with kisses, soft and careful kisses all over his face and throat and shoulders — 

Until he'd asked for harder. 

After his brothers were his lovers, as well, Amina had teased that maybe she *shouldn't* give her child to them — 

But she'd only teased once. 

Treville had only laughed at the tease, but he knows that the look in his eyes had been too bleak, too hurt, too — 

He'd *known* Amina was only teasing, that even though being the beloved adopted child of three witch-women had let her know that her coming child *would* be a boy, that even though everyone 'knew' buggerers were voracious and insatiable around male children — 

He'd known *Amina* didn't know anything of the kind, that she was his sister, always his sister, the light that had come into his world precisely when he'd needed it — 

The *refuge* that had come into his world precisely when his *heart* needed it. 

They joked about Treville's buggery all the time — filthy humor had been the foundation of their *relationship* —

But. 

He'd been her knight, then, and the knight of her babe. 

He'd been *part* of them, and they'd been part of *him*, and for days after that she'd used the connection between them to summon him to her rooms — 

To her bed — 

("I know — I know you didn't mean —" 

"Your body's too *stiff*, your heart's too *chilled*. You have to let *me* warm you, my brother.") 

And he'd clutched her in the darkness, burying his face against her long, smooth throat — 

Nuzzling and sniffing — 

Smelling her and all the different things that made up the babe *in* her — 

("Yes, just like that, just like *that* —" 

"I love you both so much —" 

"I think, these spells, they let you know my son just as well as I do, in some ways." 

"Sometimes. I ache to feel him kick."

"We will sleep with him together, sometimes, when it's safe. He will pummel your sweaty face with his fat little fists —" 

"And I'll tell the Captain that I was bested by an infant who had not yet learned the ways of chamberpots —" 

"Well, neither have you —" 

"*Hey* —" 

"When you get *enough* drink in you!") 

And so, of course, he'd had to tickle her — lightly, gently; she'd been so *big* with child — 

With Porthos.

With Porthos. 

Porthos, who, at nine, had already been so much bigger and stronger than the other boys his age. 

He'd still been a boy, though, and he'd cried as they'd sat at Amina's bedside. 

They — 

The ague had been too fast. 

Too —

A couple of days of raging, delirious fever, a few hours when nothing you tried would let the person catch a breath, and then — 

No one had been sure where it came from, though of course the usual people were blaming Jews, witches, demons, Brits, and Spaniards — not necessarily in that order. Unusual for an ague, it hadn't seemed content to attack young children and the elderly. 

It hadn't seemed to go after the children, at all — and Treville had gripped Porthos's chair to keep from gripping him. 

But...

So many young people. 

So many of his brothers in the Musketeers. 

The Army had been, almost literally, decimated. 

And. 

Countless pregnant women. 

Just like his Amina-love. 

The man she'd allowed to give her a babe hadn't had much use to him beyond his pretty face, as near as Treville could tell, but — 

("That is *all* I want him for." 

"Yes?" 

"Well...") 

And Treville had frowned *helplessly* — 

But Amina had wrapped her arms round his neck and kissed him. 

("Mm —" 

"I want another *babe*, my brother. Eight years is too long!" 

"Oh — *oh*! But —" 

"You're about to offer me *your* babe, and we have *talked about this*!") 

And Treville had blushed and quieted himself. 

Amina had laughed, bright and rich, as she'd stroked over her flat belly. 

("Ife, she says if I time it right with that worthless wretch —" 

"I'm glad you *see* —" 

"I am not a *fool*!" 

"I didn't say you were!") 

She'd smacked him lightly. 

("*Anyway*. I will have a *daughter* this time." 

"Oh..." 

"Yes. You see? A beautiful little angel, just for us."

"We'll have to get a tailor who specializes in clothes for little girls — and tutors — and —" 

"*Jean-Armand*. *I am not pregnant yet*." 

"It pays to plan *ahead*, Amina-love!") 

And she'd given him that soft look — softer, somehow, now that her smile lines were deeper — 

("You wanted a daughter."

"I want... all of your children. But yes. You and Marie-Angelique have taught me very much about women." 

"You know there is a whole *world* of women *out* there, you great *nancy*.") 

And he had spun her *round* — 

She'd shrieked a laugh — 

He'd spun her round twice more while she'd slapped at him *ineffectually* — 

And by the time they'd stopped, Porthos had been giggling in the doorway, eyes bright and happy, hair wild and massive — 

They'd beckoned him *close* — 

They'd held him tight — 

And Treville had kissed his Amina-love's cheeks before using a *significant* amount of his strength to lift Porthos for kisses from both of them. 

("I love you, Maman! I love you, Daddy! Daddy, put me *down*!") 

And so, of course, he'd had to test his back by lifting Porthos *higher* — 

("Daddy!") 

While he'd *kicked* and giggled more — 

("It would serve you right to fall on your *arse* — and you'd best make sure Porthos lands on top!") 

And Treville had gasped a laugh and set Porthos down on one of the tables in the library — which had been much more full of *literature*, by then, things enjoyable to read for *many* people — 

Treville had tickled his adoptive son *ruthlessly* — and taken the boy's quite-excellent punches and somewhat-sloppy kicks as his due. 

And the due of his brothers — and Porthos's uncles — as well. 

It had been sunny that day. 

Just as sunny, truly, as it was on the day they'd sat by Amina's still, still *body* — 

They would have to cover the body soon — 

He would have to *tell* Porthos that they'd have to cover the body, and call for the vastly overworked undertakers... 

Assuming theirs was still alive. Cloutier had looked rather hectic around the eyes when he'd come for the two poor sisters Treville had only just hired as chambermaids. 

Perhaps this would be the day he'd teach his son how to dig a grave. 

Reynard would help — so far, at least, he was well. 

Kitos... 

Treville had squeezed his eyes shut. 

Kitos was abed, and feverish. 

Not *as* feverish as the chambermaids and Amina had gotten, but his breathing was bad, and — 

And. 

No. 

Not that. 

Porthos now. 

Porthos. 

("Son...") 

Porthos had taken a deep, hitching breath, heedless of the scents of illness and death permeating the room. 

("We have to take her away soon. Don't we.") 

His *son* — 

Treville had kept his face straight by main *force*, but hadn't been able to do a thing about his voice. 

("Yes.") 

And Porthos had nodded and stood, and bent to kiss her cooling cheeks, and rubbed the swell of her seven-months-pregnant belly. 

("Goodbye, Maman. Goodbye, Jeannette.") 

There'd been nothing for him to do but do the same, and then cover her, and use the good sheets he'd purchased just for her when she'd moved in to wind her. 

He'd done it slowly, so that Porthos would see how it was done. 

By then, Reynard was in the doorway, unshaven and with bloodshot eyes. 

("Do you know where, meneur?"

"The little copse of apple trees, where you *nearly* convinced her to — that you were a good prospect,") Treville had said, and then looked meaningfully down at Porthos — 

Reynard had grinned, tears running freely down his cheeks. ("Ah, oui, a good place."

"She always laughed when she passed it. *Hard*. And I.") 

And Treville had shaken his head and stroked Porthos's hair, and knelt down to grip him, to *clutch* him — 

("Daddy... are you going to be all right?" 

"Yes, son.") 

And he'd been silent for long, *full* moments — 

Too silent. Treville had been able to feel that he'd needed to say more. 

("Porthos..." 

"Are you." 

"Yes?" 

"Are you going to be all right tomorrow?") 

I am your knight, now and forever, Treville hadn't said. 

I am the blood in your veins, and you're the blood in mine. 

("I won't let you get away from me, son. I'll find a way,") Treville had said — *vowed* — and felt his boy breathe easier — 

Even as he felt Reynard eye him queerly. 

They hadn't lingered over Amina's grave, that day. 

There'd been no way to know that Kitos *would* survive, if irrevocably weakened. 

They'd stayed by his bedside until he'd ordered them all away, and then — 

Well, he'd spent a lot of time in the next several months angry and lost, as his body refused to respond in the ways it always had. 

He'd been slower, weaker, quicker to lose his *breath* — and unfit for active duty. 

At first, they'd all told themselves stories about how he'd eventually be back on his feet, but even the best surgeons Treville's money could pay for had the same story — the ague that had killed so many had left many of the survivors with damage to their lungs that no amount of exercise and clean living could *fix*. 

They could and should still live long, happy lives, but — 

Not as soldiers. 

After the last one had left, and they'd all helped Porthos with his lessons — books and otherwise, because there was really no reason *not* to bring him with them to the garrison whenever humanly possible — and put him to bed, they'd sat around the fire with brandy. 

("Well, mates, I, for one, am glad to be done with all the smallbeer and stumpwater,") and Kitos had drunk off half his first brandy *exactly* like the soldier he would always be, no matter what. 

Treville and Reynard had shared a *look* — 

And the truth had been there. 

All of it.

So — 

("Mon frère, mon verrat, you know that with Bissette retiring —" 

"Laurent will be the Captain, and poor Marie-Angelique will have to somehow find a lover who can haul her ashes half as well —" 

"A quarter, no better —" 

"Well, you'd know, Fearless,") Kitos had said, and belched into his fist. 

("This is not what I'm saying,") Reynard had said — 

("I can't be a lieutenant —" 

"You bloody well can if Laurent says you —" 

"*Lieutenants* go out in the *field*,") Kitos had *growled* — and, for once, the growl had meant something. 

Treville had *looked* at Reynard. 

Kitos had knocked back the rest of his brandy, poured himself another, knocked back half of that, and looked at neither of them before saying, ("I've been thinking of going back — home.") 

That had started a lot of yelling. 

A lot — 

A lot of yelling. 

*Porthos* had woken up — 

Come down to see why they were *killing* each other — 

And either that or the act of scooping Porthos up *easily* in his still-massive arms — he certainly hadn't lost *that* much of his strength — to comfort him had put some sense back in the man's head. 

Kitos had given both him and Reynard *rueful* looks over the top of Porthos's freshly-trimmed — but not too trimmed — curls. 

They'd breathed easier, and sung godawful and obscene marching songs with Porthos until he was yawning again — 

Yawning hugely enough to justify switching to Amina's lullabies — 

("'m not a baby —" 

"Ah, non, non, you are *our* baby, homme puissante —" 

"Don't wanna be a *baby*.") 

And they'd paused on the steps, Kitos holding Porthos up in his arms — 

Amina's ghost a cold wind blowing through *all* of them — but in none of the useful and *present* ways — 

And Treville had cupped Porthos's head, and kissed his temple, and, ("Do we not listen to you enough, son?" 

"N-no. It's not that." 

"No? Do you feel... pushed about? Run over?"

"No. I just. Maman sang me those songs when I was a *baby*. She'd *stopped*, because I was a big boy. It was stories, not songs.") 

And there had been no way to say 'we sing you those songs because they bring her closer to us, as opposed to keeping her out among the apple trees, all alone,' not to a child of only nine, and so they'd nodded. 

("Marching songs *only* for our boy." 

"Ah, oui, only the most adult ones!"

"And *all* the stories,") Treville had said, and they'd all leaned in to kiss him together — 

And he'd giggled, and they'd put him back to bed — with Kitos's favorite story about Reynard falling off a horse — repeatedly and acrobatically — while drunk. 

("Vraiment, I was trying to demonstrate the proper ways to *flip*!") 

And then they'd put themselves to bed, pointedly giving Kitos the middle even though he usually took the right in a blatant effort to make it extra hard for Treville to escape of a morning. 

Together, in the dark, they had held each other. And, eventually, Kitos had said — 

("I can't leave him. Of course I bloody can't." 

"But you can leave us, mon verrat?" 

"Not that, *either*, fox-face. But — I can't be a soldier. I can't be *half* a soldier and look myself in the eye. I — what the bloody buggering fuck am I supposed to *do* with myself? I've been a soldier all my *life*.") 

And Treville had thought of the empty spaces in the manor — 

The tasks that just didn't get done because they were down two maids, and they hadn't *had* a chatelaine since Amina had moved in — 

And. 

("Don't be half a soldier. Stay home. Stay *here*." 

"What — what?" 

"You know this place needs it. You know my bloody *legacy* needs it if it's going to be *fit* for Porthos when the time comes." 

"But —" 

"You don't know how to do that work, and you're not so good at your figures. I know. But you've only been *pretending* to be bad at your reading for *years*, now, and the rest can be fixed. So do it. Do this for *me*. *Please*.") 

And Treville had *looked* at Kitos — 

And Reynard had looked at Kitos *hopefully* — 

And Kitos had blinked and blinked and — laughed, hard and rumbling. ("Oh — shit, Fearless. Are you about to start *paying* me for eating all your food and sweating all over your sheets now?" 

"That I am. Because you'll also be making sure we don't run out of beef again —" 

"Merde, that was horrible!" 

"And hiring us pretty servants that'll ensure Porthos grows up in the right frame of mind for all sorts of things —") 

"He needs his own horse." 

"I — he does? No, strike that, he does. He's old enough. Get him a horse. Get him the *best* horse. Get him two horses." 

"Dogs, too." 

"Absolutely — wait."

"Is notre meneur conflicted about this? You have not taken your boy hunting even *once*.") 

And Treville had — glowered. "I... want to hunt with him." 

"So do it, cher! Let us buy some good hounds and train with them and —" 

"*No*. *I* want to hunt with him.") 

And then there'd been silence. 

Telling silence. 

*Lengthy* silence — 

("Look —") 

And then Kitos and burst out with *spluttering* laughter — 

And Reynard had snickered like a *boy* — 

("I think this is a perfectly bloody reasonable desire —" 

"'course it is, Basset. If you're a *Basset*." 

"We *talked* about you calling me that —" 

"*Fearless*. If you're going to go hunting with Porthos like *that*? *I* get to call you whatever I bloody *like*.") 

And that... had been a point. 

Treville had sighed. 

("We'll talk about the hunting another time.")


	2. I want to. I want to.

And Porthos had been their boy. 

*Theirs*, always bloody *theirs* — 

And. 

He's still theirs now. 

Fourteen years old, nearly as tall as Treville — will he be as tall as Kitos someday? — and so... perfect. 

Beautiful with a sword — nearly as good as Laurent's boy Olivier, and that boy is a prodigy.

Deadly with whatever gun you put in his *hands*, thanks to countless hours of *joyful* practice — with them, and with Olivier, as well. 

*Viciously* accurate with knives. 

And, when it comes to hand-to-hand combat... 

They can't even pretend to let him train with the other boys for that, anymore. He's too big, too strong, too quick, too deft, too *perfect*. 

Right now, down where Treville can watch from the catwalk, he's wrestling with *two* commissioned veterans and making them look like amateurs. 

Drunken, crippled amateurs. 

Certainly, that's how they'll both feel when Porthos is done with them. 

Treville had taken every opportunity to teach Porthos all the things a leaner, smaller person could do to a larger opponent, but Porthos has forgotten none of them as he's grown — Reynard's homme puissante in every way — and he's learned every trick everyone else at the garrison could teach him, and he'd gone and found *books* to teach himself even *more* tricks. 

When they've taken him drinking, Treville's caught the boy watching *bar* fights. 

("Son, are you *studying*?" 

"Mm? Oh, yeah, Daddy. You never know.") 

That you don't. 

There are... so many things that you *think* you'll never need to know — about the world and about *yourself* —

And Laurent's clipped, even pace would be familiar through a fog of laudanum. 

It *has* been, as a matter of fact, though, thankfully, not recently. 

"Were you coming to see me?"

"Yes, sir," Treville says, keeping to protocol for the sake of discipline. 

"Mm. Official business...?" 

"Not a bit of it." 

"And yet you're quite grim —" 

"Let me. Let me see the end of this," Treville says, and grips the railing of the walk hard, squinting his eyes against everything he's not saying. 

All the *ways* he's not saying it. 

'It'. 

How, exactly, do you go about saying to one's friend and brother that you've gone and fallen in love with your *son*? 

That, even now, you dream of walking down these steps and calling Porthos away from the men he's demolishing — 

Of luring Porthos into some dark, cool outbuilding — 

Of stripping away his training clothes and — 

He dreams that. 

He's dreaming it right now, as his beautiful boy tosses Belette to the ground — 

As his beautiful boy grins up at him so cheerfully and *waves* before helping Belette and Matos up — 

He dreams it every night. 

Every day and every *bloody* night, and is this —

"Come to my office, Treville." 

"Yes, sir," he says, and follows Laurent. 

Once they're inside, Laurent pours him a brandy and won't let him have it until he's sitting down. Once he *is* — "Drink all of it, then let me give you another, then tell me what horrible thing has happened." 

He manages the part of that that involves drinking two excellent brandies. 

Then he stares at the grain of Laurent's desk. 

For... much too long. 

Finally, Laurent sits down on the part of the desk Treville's staring at and frowns at him. "Brother..." 

"It's... so awful." 

"You sound like — no. It's something that's made you doubt *yourself*." 

"Yes." 

"It's something that's made you doubt your *fitness*." 

"*Yes* —" 

"The answer is simple, brother," Laurent says, and takes Treville's tumbler away. 

Treville blinks and looks up. "I haven't even told you the *problem* —" 

"You need not. There is nothing you could do, nothing you could *become*, that could ever change your fundamental rectitude as a man." 

"*Laurent* —" 

"But I recognize that you need to talk about the things which are worrying at your heart —" 

"I'm in love with my *son*." 

Laurent opens his mouth — "You." 

Treville snarls and throws himself back in the chair — no. 

He gets up and walks, paces — 

Touches the walls, the maps, the shelves — 

"Is it like Amina?" 

He stops. And stares. He — "Laurent — don't — *don't* —" 

"I need to know this, brother," Laurent says, with quiet reasonableness. "If we're going to — to work through this problem —" 

"We can't —" 

"We must. There are no other options. Now answer my question," he says, and that — was command. 

Treville grunts — and nods. "It is — and it isn't." 

"Is he your liege."

"Always, but..." Treville growls and shakes his head. "It's not as simple as it was with Amina. I — I'm forced to admit it never was —" 

"Where are the complications?" 

"He's my son. He's always *been* my son. Amina was never my wife, even though I wanted her to be." 

"She was your sister, however." 

"Yes. *Yes*. And you know — there was desire." 

"And then *blocked* desire," Laurent says. "You said — implied — that the desire was blocked *only* by the magical elements?" 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut and beats his head against the wall — no. "That was true. It was — the bond between us. I could always tell — *feel* — that making love would twist the bond. Change it. As her vassal, it wasn't my choice to do that. It was — wrong to even think of doing it." 

"It was her choice, if it was anyone's choice, at all." 

"Yes —" 

"Whose choice is it with Porthos?" 

Treville swallows. "It's not — like that." 

"No?" 

"Or." 

"Go on," Laurent says, and crosses his legs at the ankle. He's sitting on the edge of the desk with his head down and a frown on his face — 

And that — 

The *pain* of that — 

Of *course* he'd expected — he should've expected —

Laurent looks up immediately, deep blue eyes *snapping* to focus on Treville. "I am only thinking deeply, brother, and trying to concentrate —" He shakes his head once and stands, moving to join Treville. "Brother. You will always be mine, and I will always be yours." 

Treville *groans* — 

And Laurent wraps his arms round him, holds him *tight* — 

After a moment, Treville clutches him back and breathes, just breathes, just breathes his too-accepting brother *in* — 

"You haven't told Reynard or Kitos." 

"I —" 

"That's why you've been training so hard here — and training the other men to all hours of the night." 

"I. I had to be able to send Porthos home with Reynard at least sometimes. I had to be *apart* —" 

"The feelings are new." 

Treville noses in against Laurent's throat and shudders. "They... they must have built so *slowly*." 

"Oh... it wasn't sudden." 

Treville whines. "It was... so many little things. I've *always* needed to touch his hair, and stroke it, and crush it in my hands, and sniff it, and kiss and lick his temples, smell his sweat, feel his presence, his solid weight, his solid *reality*." 

"There's — there's nothing wrong —" 

"When I kiss him goodnight, now, I move for his soft, beautiful mouth, reflexively —" 

"Oh." 

"When we wrestle, I move to *arouse* him —" 

"No — don't —" 

"When I tell him stories of the past, I instinctively start talking about — about *whoring* —" 

"He's... he's not so young... oh, but brother —"

"I know. I know," Treville says, and crushes his face as much as he can against Laurent's throat and shoulder. "I want him hard. I want — I've scented his arousal. His... excitement." 

Laurent breathes — 

Breathes harder — 

"When, brother." 

"Reynard and Kitos... they're not so *punctilious* about censoring their stories now, and I don't always... stop them. Not right away." 

Laurent swallows. "And... Porthos grows aroused." 

"His cock hardens under the covers — I can *feel* it. We're *connected* —" 

"Oh. Did you feel it when Amina —" 

"Only when we were that close when it happened. There were... sometimes she'd be dreaming of lovemaking and wake me... I'd ache to touch — oh, God —" And Treville backs away — 

Covers his face with his hands — 

Imagines *Amina's* face if she could hear any *part* of this conversation — 

And then Laurent's hands are on his shoulders — 

Squeezing and massaging — 

Drugging him with their easy *strength* — 

"Yes, brother, be easy. Be *comforted* —" 

"Not — not for *this* —" 

"There's one desperately important question. Even among all the others," Laurent says. 

"What — what is it." 

"The two of you are connected. It's entirely possible that the magical connection built between you before he was born has become stronger over the years —" 

"It. Did. It did. When Amina died." 

"And suddenly he was the whole of your focus?" 

Treville shudders under Laurent's hands. "Yes." 

"Mm. Then this question is even more pertinent," he says, and, "Does he feel *you*?" 

Treville moans. "I want him to." 

"Brother —" 

"I *need* him —" 

"*Brother* —" 

"I think — no. He doesn't know about the bond." 

Laurent stiffens behind him. "Treville..." 

"He knows about the witches; he knows his Daddy isn't human. He knows his Maman and his Daddy had a special connection that was magical in nature —" 

"But he doesn't know about the one to *him*?" 

Treville hangs his head again — "No. Not — not the whole of it. " 

"You have to tell him. You — *why* didn't you tell him?" 

"At first — he was too young to understand." 

"But —" 

"And then there was always something else to tell him first. Something else to teach, or show... I was making excuses, I think," Treville says, standing straight and turning round to face Laurent. "Keeping him unable to *protect* himself for as long as possible." 

"Protect — from your ability to feel him?" 

Treville nods. "There isn't much he can do in that direction — I wouldn't be a very good protector if there were — but he'd be able to hide... some of his emotions from me. His thoughts and dreams and wishes — if I reached that far in the first place." 

"And you haven't?" 

"No. Not yet." I can't bear to see that his arousal, his dreams, his fantasies, have nothing to do with *me*. 

Laurent grunts and *jerks* — 

And Treville squeezes his eyes shut again. 

"I... brother." 

"I'm listening. To *anything* you might have to say," Treville says, and smiles painfully. 

"You mentioned, some months ago, that Porthos had demurred when Reynard and Kitos had offered to take him for a night with... women as opposed to merely a night of carousing." 

Treville winces *hard* — 

Pants — 

And opens his eyes. "I could feel him. He was worried about embarrassing himself in front of his randy, legendary uncles. I promised myself I'd take him, instead —" 

"Do it." 

Treville grunts. "Laurent —" 

"You *must* grow accustomed to the idea of him desiring other people. People not *you*. You must let him.... grow apart from you." 

Treville *whines*. 

"Let the scents of his desire *always* mean to you — *with no ambiguity* — that there is another person in his mind and heart —" 

Treville *barks* — 

And Laurent takes him into his arms again. "I will be there to make it right for you in every way I can, brother. We all will." 

"I can't — I —" 

"You know the others must know. If not right away, then soon."

"*Fuck* —" 

"They'll *help* you take care of Porthos. They'll be your support when you need it," Laurent says, perfectly reasonably, and — 

And he knows this. 

He does. 

He shudders and pushes his face against Laurent's leathers again. Breathes deep. 

Gets a flash, sudden and unbidden, of peeling Porthos's riding gloves off and licking and sniffing and nipping and nuzzling between his fingers — 

But Laurent is right there, and sharing with him, so there's only a moment's pause before Treville is erased from the images and replaced with a random woman he doesn't recognize — 

(A tavern maid I once saw Reynard making love with.) 

And the tavern maid wraps her soft lips round *three* of Porthos's wet fingers — 

Winks one grey eye — 

Her breasts are all but falling out of her dress — 

And Porthos's eyes are hot with excitement. 

It hurts to look at. It — 

It *hurts* — 

(We are, I have always assumed, not *supposed* to look upon the assignations of our children.) 

Treville moans and pushes the images away — 

*Clings* to Laurent — 

*Shakes* — 

And Laurent kisses *his* temple, soft and lingeringly. 

The shake becomes a shudder. 

"Brother... do you still... do you not want my touch any longer?" 

Treville clings harder, shoving his need for Laurent at the man until he's staggering — 

Laurent grunts and flails out to clutch the wall. "I'm — I can feel — *thank* you for that reassurance, brother!" 

Treville growls and holds him, *holds* him — 

"And I can feel — you will take my advice." 

Treville nods. 

"If you need me to, I'll take Porthos to one of the houses myself... you'd have to direct me on what to *do*, but —" 

Treville coughs a *rusty* laugh — 

Wheezes — 

Laughs *harder*, loosening his *grip* on Laurent — 

And Laurent pulls back enough to grin at him. "I imagine Porthos would already do better at that sort of conversation than I would..." 

"While drugged and drunk, yes." 

"Hmm, yes. *Is* he much of a drinker, yet?" 

Treville grins — "He'd like to measure up to his Daddy and Uncles..." 

"I imagine so," Laurent says, crossing his arms over his chest and resting his chin on the fingers of one hand. 

"Four tumblers of fortified wine and the lad's gone for the night," Treville says, shaking his head and laughing. 

"You do realize that's *impressive* for a boy his age —" 

"He's *my* son, Laurent." 

"Oh, of course, of course." 

"And he's just so... you should see him at the taverns. Always waiting for a dust-up just so he can watch and see if there are any tricks he hasn't learned yet —" 

"You'd mentioned..." 

"I... five or six times?" 

Laurent... twinkles at him. 

Treville smiles ruefully and looks down. "He's such a good boy." 

"He's your son," Laurent says, as if that encompasses everything Porthos is. 

Treville shakes his head. "He's so much more. He's — I have to make him happy. I *will* make him happy." 

Laurent smiles. "I know you will, brother." 

"I — tonight. I'm going." 

"Yes?" 

"Unless he doesn't want to — but at his age, of course he wants to. I just have to make him comfortable — and I'm going," Treville says, starting for the door, stopping, turning round, moving to Laurent and kissing him *hard* — 

And Laurent *stops* him with a caress to his cheek — 

A hand on his heart — 

(You're not the only one who's ever had an inappropriate thought, brother.) 

Treville blinks — 

(You're not the only one with a beautiful, brilliant, accomplished son.) 

Treville swallows and pulls out of the kiss. "You... have two of those." 

Laurent smiles ruefully. "So I do. And we all must do our best. Mustn't we?"

The frightening thing is that that was a real *question* — 

(I am constantly amazed at your ability to see me as a hopeless naif while *also* seeing me as a font of greater wisdom than your own.) And Laurent raises an eyebrow. 

Treville — straightens his training clothes and tips his currently-absent hat. "I'm a remarkable man, sir." 

"Mm. You prove this daily, recruit —" 

Treville *splutters* — 

Laurent grins. "Dismissed." 

Treville takes his leave, then, and makes no bones about the fact that he's hunting down his boy. 

*Laurent* had made no bones about the fact that one of the reasons he was promoting Treville and Reynard to lieutenant was so Olivier and Porthos would be able to reasonably call them 'sir' at the garrison instead of 'Uncle' and 'Daddy' — 

Military discipline must be *maintained* — 

And he finds his perfect boy with the surgeons, learning massage techniques to use on the men he'd utterly destroyed earlier. 

He never *stops*. 

He never — 

And there's a horrifying thought in his mind — what if Porthos only misbehaves to make his Daddy and Uncles *happy*? 

What if he's a *good* boy? 

Treville watches him from the shadows — 

Watches him learn how to use his hands, and how to *not* use them — 

Watches him perk up that much more and *focus* that much harder when the surgeons — and Matos — start giving him very helpful advice about how to use those techniques on likely young women to make them even likelier — 

Watches him snicker and *flush* when Belette speaks up for what those techniques can do for your own cock — or someone else's, if you like that sort of thing — 

Treville doesn't clutch the wall, and he doesn't let himself lurk any longer. 

He makes *noise* as he walks in — 

And the men all come to attention like he's the bloody Captain — even Matos and Belette, who are on their fucking bellies. 

"None of that, men. I'm here to steal my boy." 

"Sir?" And Porthos raises his eyebrows and looks — eager. 

Some god somewhere *help* him — no, no — 

Treville grins and beckons. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up. We've got miles to make tonight." 

"Yes, sir," Porthos says, correct as you please, and then nods his goodbyes to the other men before jogging to join him. "Are we going back to the manor tonight? I wanted to pick up some of those Italian candies Uncle Kitos likes —" 

"We're going... well, actually that's up to you." 

"Mm?" 

"Let's get a little privacy, first," Treville says, beating back the first dozen fantasies that start with him saying those words — 

The first eight or so that start with him leading Porthos into the barracks off-hours 'for a wash' — 

They're actually going to get *clean*. 

He has to repeat that to himself a few times as Porthos strips down. He — 

"Daddy?"

Oh — fuck. He'd been staring. At Porthos's chest, to be specific. He has a bruise from a lucky kick, and it just makes it all the more clear how *big* he's getting, how *strong* — 

"I — sorry. I know I'm not supposed to call you that, here," Porthos says ruefully. "That was just more of a Daddy look on your face than a Sir look." 

*Was* it? 

How long *has* he been — no, no — 

Treville snorts and strokes over Porthos's curls. "Then we both need to do a little better." 

"Yes, sir," he says, and grins, stripping down the rest of the way — 

His cock is so *thick* for his age — and just a little bit hard. Easy enough to say that he's no harder than he should be *for* his age. 

Treville turns away and strips at speed, hoping the water is positively *glacial* today. 

They wash in silence for a few moments — 

And then, once there's gooseflesh on his bollocks and they're trying to return to his *body*, Treville can *talk*. "I know Reynard and Kitos talked about taking you whoring a few months ago." 

Porthos drops his rag. 

Treville grins but doesn't *look* as Porthos bends over. "I *also* know that you're a bit embarrassed by the prospect." 

"Um. A bit —" And Porthos's voice creaks like a rusty hinge. He tries to cough it back down. 

"There's no need for that, son," Treville says, as he continues to wash. 

"N-no?" 

"Haven't we all told you countless ridiculous stories about the foolery we've gotten up to when we were *much* older than you? All men do silly and stupid things their first *many* times with a woman." 

"You... mostly haven't told *those* stories, sir."

Treville blinks — 

Considers — 

And coughs a rueful laugh. "All right, you have a point. Here's one: I spent a good, solid year and half going with women every *week* even though I had no interest in them whatsoever." 

"But... I know you and Olivier's mum — I mean, sometimes —"

"Sometimes, yes. But you also know that I was changed, magically, not long before you were born," he says, and laughs. "Some of those changes are rather obvious."

Porthos smiles. "You were Maman's protector."

"And yours, and I always will be —" 

"I." And Porthos clears his throat again, even though his voice doesn't *crack* again. "I'll be your protector, too, someday," he says, and doesn't *look* at Treville — 

He's flushing so *pink* — 

He's — 

And Treville pulls him close because he has to, squeezing his strong, slippery body tight and kissing him — 

Just the top of his head — 

Just the top of his *head* — 

"Oh — sir —" 

"I love you so much." 

"I love you! And — and I'm not a *baby*. I *will* be better than I am now —" 

"Yes. You will. You're getting better every day, and I'm so bloody proud of you that I'm *blind* with it sometimes —" 

Porthos clutches him *tight* — 

Treville *grunts* — and wills himself not to harden. Not — 

Not right now — 

Porthos's body is so *warm* under the cold water — 

So *strong* — 

Treville kisses the top of his head again, and wonders if this will have to be the first time he pushes his beautiful boy away — 

He can't ever — 

He *can't* — 

But he's saved by Porthos *yanking* himself back and scrubbing his hands over his face. And looking right up at him — *into* him — as he says: "I'll always stay *with* you, sir! Or — or for as long as you want —" 

Treville *growls* — "I'll always want you near. You. I'd like you to live with me when you marry, and — please." 

Porthos bites his lip — and nods. 

And his thick and growing cock is — getting harder. 

Responding to him? 

Responding to close quarters? 

Responding to the bond *between* them? 

He — he won't comment *yet*. "I — let's finish washing before this water gets any icier, mm?" 

"Yes, sir!" 

They do just that. "Now, as I was saying, I was changed by the spells that made me your protector. I was... made one with something like a dog, but also something much greater than that." 

"There aren't many things greater than dogs, sir," Porthos opines. 

Treville grins, showing off his sharpest teeth. "You have my absolute agreement. Still." 

Porthos nods. 

"Dogs discriminate much less than men do, son. Becoming one with that... being was a lot like having blinkers taken off. In many ways, but notably in terms of women." 

"You could... see them? In... sexual ways?" 

"Exactly." 

"And you *couldn't* before," Porthos says thoughtfully. "Is that why you and Maman never —" 

Treville coughs — and flushes. "There were... many reasons for that. But that *is* one of them. Understand, son, Amina was the sister of my heart. I loved her more than my life, and I offered... well. Before I was changed, it would've been like giving her half a man. After that... I was her knight, and she was my liege. I know you've read a great deal about that." 

"Yes, sir. Knights don't — don't. With their lieges." 

"Precisely. Unless their lieges desire it." 

Porthos *nods* thoughtfully. "She liked being your *sister*." 

"That she did, son. In rather different ways than my brothers like being my *brothers*," Treville says, and laughs ruefully. 

Porthos blushes and laughs, too, crouching to wash his feet. "Sometimes I think I'd like to have — um." And he stops, right there. 

Treville blinks. "You know I can't let you end a sentence *that* way, Porthos." 

"I — I know. I just." And then he sighs. "I'm jealous of Olivier a lot," he says, and looks up. 

Treville is mystified for a long moment and tries to wash his tackle as uninspiringly as possible — "Jealous, son?" 

"Well. *He* has a brother. And. And I think about Jeannette a lot. I mean, what she would've been like if she'd been born before Maman had died." 

"Oh — oh, son... I think about that, too." 

"You do?" 

Treville washes his own legs and feet. "Your mother and I, we fantasized about her, a lot. How we'd dress her, what tutors we'd get for her, how overprotective you'd be when the gentlemen came to court..." 

"Oh — *oh*." And Porthos grins. "And — and what she'd look like?" 

"Her father was a pretty man. Had some Greek blood, we think. Curls a little like Baudet's, nose like Reynard's, skin a very *light* olive, with some gold to it..." 

"Was he — did he die of the same ague?" 

Why hadn't they *told* him — no, tell him now. "We don't know. I..." Treville smiles ruefully. "I'll be honest, son — your mother took the man as a lover because she wanted a pretty father for a pretty babe, and for no other reason." 

Porthos blinks. "Women *do* that?" 

"Women who aren't currently looking for *husbands* — or women who have husbands who can't perform for whatever reason — do." 

Porthos nods slowly. "She knew her babe would have your name." 

"Of course. I'd made that promise to her years before. I... I wanted all of her children." 

Porthos looks at him. "Am I like her? A lot?" 

Treville rinses himself off and stands. "You have her eyes, the shape of her mouth, her round little ears..." He grins and strokes one — 

Porthos grins back. 

"You have her strength and intelligence. You have her character, her adaptability, her humor, her *goodness*." 

"Oh —" 

"You have... oh, son. Do you remember how her laugh was as big as the world?" 

"Yes!" 

"You have that, too. The first time I heard her laugh, I just stopped and stared... and then *immediately* began trying to think of ways to get her to laugh like that again and again and again. You have so *much* of her." 

"And... nothing much of my blood-father?" 

Your Uncle Laurent has, with my help, been systematically and vindictively tearing apart the Belgard family for the past fifteen years — "I... that..." 

Porthos frowns and moves to dry himself. "Is that a difficult question, sir?" 

Treville winces. "I never knew *precisely* how much your mother *told* you about your blood-father —" 

"She told me to stay clear of the Marquis de Belgard and his family as much as I could. I... eventually I figured *out* that he was my father. What's wrong with him? What did he do, sir?" 

Treville closes his eyes and starts to dry *himself* off — no. No. If anything, this will keep his thoughts away from sex for a little while longer. "He tried to have you and your mother killed." 

"What? *Why*?" 

"For no reason whatsoever. He had demanded she be his mistress, and there was a little a former slave with no patron could do. At first, he treated her well enough, and she didn't mind his attentions. But she never wanted him, and when she fell pregnant and his whole family was thundering about it, it was obvious that he had to put her aside. He didn't — for long enough that the scandal grew. He later told us — Laurent and me — that he'd been pressured to have you and your mother killed by *his* mother, but really..." Treville grunts and shakes his head. "There are reasons why the Belgard family has fallen over the past generation. Most of them have to do with —" 

"You," Porthos says, in a quiet and sure voice that makes Treville's skin feel hot and tight and *needy*. 

Makes his *heart* feel that way. But — "The Captain's done most of that —" 

"*For* you." 

"Son..." 

"You'll always take care of me," he says, just the way Amina used to, just — 

Treville shudders and swallows and — 

Cups his beautiful boy's face. 

Just that. "Always." 

Porthos looks up that short distance into Treville's eyes —

*Searches* Treville's eyes — 

"Sir..."

Treville takes a *breath* — had he been staring too long? "Son. Are you all right? This... it has to be too much —" 

"I'm all right, sir. I was expecting something like this. I mean — he *didn't* get to hurt Maman, did he?" 

"No, son. We caught the would-be assassin in time. Though, frankly, I'm quite sure your mother would've been able to do for him all by her lonesome, even recovering from childbirth as she was. Remind me to tell you the story one day of what happened when a man cut up rough with her while I happened to be wandering by the tea shop where she used to work one night." 

"Oh — *oh*. She could *fight*, too?" 

"I'm *absolutely* convinced that's where you get it from. We all taught her tricks so she could take care of herself *better*, but..." And Treville sighs dreamily. "She was a terror to the toughs who tried to take what they shouldn't from her." 

Porthos *beams* — 

And Treville grins wide. "I loved her *madly*." 

Porthos bites his lip and nods. 

Treville strokes his cheek with his thumb. "C'mon, let's get ourselves dressed respectably." 

"You... for. For a whorehouse?" 

"*Exactly*, son. We're a Musketeer and a Musketeer-in-training. We've an image to uphold," Treville says, forcing himself to change his caress to a clap on the shoulder. 

Porthos *coughs* — 

Blushes *more* — 

"I..." 

"But let's think more, too, about the fact that I was doing my whoring with people I absolutely did not *want* to be doing any whoring with when I was your age." 

"Yes — *yes*, sir." 

"It was obvious. Painfully so — embarrassingly so. You should probably get Kitos to tell you this story, too, because his impression of my 'sodding *tragically* constipated' expressions as I dutifully fucked one woman after another just so people wouldn't *immediately* assume that I was a buggerer..." Treville sighs and pulls on his breeches, and laces them up. 

"People didn't know?" 

"Well, *Kitos* — Honoré, then — did. He'd always been my closest friend, and he *watched* me grimly fucking those poor, hard-working women — 'wincing for both of you', as he'll tell it — and that's how he put two and two together. And that brave, gentle man took me aside and all but shook me until I admitted that I'd rather a man — or a boy." And Treville lets that sit there, because... 

Because there are his fucking *problematic* hopes, and then there's the fact that Porthos is, quite possibly, the most *over*-developed fourteen-year-old boy in France, and the fact that there's only so much embarrassment the boy can *possibly* have after growing up with all of *them*, and the fact that Treville has been smelling *spend* — not just slick — from Porthos's bedroom for a *year*. 

It *could've* been there before then. 

He wasn't looking. 

He —

He waits, and dresses — 

And *doesn't* watch Porthos dress — 

And — 

"It..." 

"Yes, son?" 

"I don't know if it's queer or not. That I want to, you know, go with boys. And men." 

Treville *swallows* back a growl, and *looks* at Porthos, who, brave boy that he is, is looking right at him. "It isn't. All sorts of people want it, even when they're young like you." 

Porthos licks his lips — and nods. "It's just. You've all been talking about women, and me getting married someday, and having children..." And Porthos looks up at him with wide eyes, shirt on over his breeches and — 

He's hard under there. 

So beautiful. "You don't think that's the life you'll want, son?" 

"No, sir." 

Treville doesn't *listen* to the parts of himself that say pounce — 

Bite — 

*Take* — "If you don't want it, you won't have it." 

Porthos frowns. "I... I think there's something you're not saying, sir." 

Fuck — Treville pulls on a smile. "Just putting away my dreams of grandchildren, son —" 

"Oh — but — I *will* —" 

"Shh. You'll do nothing you don't want, son. If nothing else, think of how unhappy the poor *woman* would be, mm? None of us want that for you — or that hypothetical her, or those hypothetical children who'd be wondering why Maman was so unhappy, and why Papa was always whoring around." 

"Well... she could have lovers, *too*, sir," Porthos says, and smiles slyly. 

"Oh, true, true. We could just go ahead and turn the manor into a brothel now, get started early —" 

"Uncle Kitos would be happy!" 

"As would Uncle Reynard, you little deviant —" 

"And you, sir?" 

"And me — depending on the whores in question —" 

"I would never discriminate, sir," Porthos says, smiling brightly, happily, relievedly — 

And Treville stares for a moment — 

Just a moment — 

And then turns away before he can say the words: 'I want to kiss you until you spend in your good, clean clothes. I want to bite you until you need to spend again. I want to lick you until you beg me to touch you *cruelly*. I want to cherish you, I want to. I want to.' 

He finishes dressing. He —

"Sir? *Are* you upset about maybe not having grandchildren?" 

"I —" 

"Or is it something else?" 

Fuck, fuck, *fuck*. He has to — 

Not get himself together. That's not going to work tonight. 

He has to give Porthos a reasonable *excuse* for him to be this *wrong*. But what? 

He can't use his memories of Amina this way, and using his brothers is similarly forbidden to the part of his mind which makes the rules. Some sort of trouble for the Musketeers as a whole? That lie would have the integrity of gossamer. It — 

"Sir...?" 

("Dogs aren't meant to keep *secrets*. Especially not from the people they love.") 

Treville slumps — 

"Oh — Daddy, what *is* it? Please tell me," Porthos says, and he's right there with his strong hands on Treville's arms, stroking down to Treville's *hands* — 

Cupping and squeezing and sharing his hardening calluses —

"Tell me, and I —" 

"Shh," Treville says, smiling ruefully again and squeezing Porthos's hands. "You have to let me keep this — one secret for now." 

Porthos frowns. "No. No, you're not supposed to keep secrets from me. I don't — that feels *wrong*, Daddy —" 

"Shh, shh, just for a little while. Just... until the end of the night," Treville says, and feels the ground crumbling beneath his feet — 

His promises to Laurent — but. 

It is wrong to hide from Porthos. 

The bond between them is a *pull*, a yank on his *lead* — 

Porthos is more his son than his liege, but he still holds *enough* of that control to make himself *felt* — "Son, shh, stop that," Treville says, twisting his hands free and cupping Porthos's face. "Stop... tugging, for a moment." 

"I — nn. You have to tell me. It hurts that you're not *telling* me!" 

"But you know I will, don't you? You know I won't ever lie to you. That I *can't* ever lie to you," Treville says, and feels himself being bound that way, feels himself *making* that true —

"Oh... that feels..." 

"Better?" 

Porthos licks his lips, long eyelashes fluttering for a moment — "Yes, Daddy," he says, and opens his huge eyes wide. "You'll tell me tonight." 

"Yes." 

"After I — have sex with someone. Someone else." 

"Yes, son."

Porthos frowns slightly. "I wish. I wish you'd sleep with me more often. The way you do when you take me hunting." 

Treville grins. "You want the dog in your bed, son?" 

"I want *you* in my bed. In — in any way. Every way." 

Treville can't stop the growl, and can't manage a smile or a tease before saying — "You'll have it." 

Porthos grins and leans in to kiss Treville's cheek. 

Close to his mouth. 

Not close *enough* — not close enough to justify all the things Treville wants to do to his beautiful, beautiful boy. He kisses *Porthos's* cheeks, instead, and pulls back, and they both finish dressing.


	3. Porthos has a good eye for quality.

Porthos manages to keep his gob shut for a little while, but they're not even to the stables, yet, before he has to — 

He has to — 

"Do you know which brothel we'll be... you know. Uh." 

"I've some ideas." Daddy grins, then, and it's one of the ones Porthos likes best — sleek and mean and confident, because Daddy knows exactly what he's doing. 

Even when he doesn't. 

Even when he has no bloody *idea* — 

Not that Porthos has figured out any ways to get *good* outcomes out of letting his *father* know that he — wants him.

Needs him. 

And — fuck, he's pushing too hard already. Spending all that time trying to see if Daddy sees him the same way he saw Porthos's *mother* — 

He can't do that. 

There's no — 

There's no *benefit* to that — 

"Son...?" 

"Yes, sir?" Please *touch* me — 

And Daddy's hand is on his shoulder, just like that. 

Just — 

It's that *weird* thing that happens, sometimes, when Porthos is thinking too *hard* in one particular way and Daddy is — close. 

"Son? What's wrong?" 

Porthos has no bloody idea what look is on his face. Just — none. "Um. I'm nervous," he says, honestly. 

Daddy frowns and cups his face, right there in the stables — "Too nervous...?" 

He has to do *better* — 

He has to do anything *but* think about sucking Daddy's hard, rough *fingers* — 

But — no. Daddy asked a bloody *question*. "No, sir." 

"Son —" 

"I — I can do this —" 

"But do you *want* to?"

There's a right answer to that, and — "I *really* want to have sex, sir," Porthos mumbles, and hopes it doesn't sound too much like 'I really want to have sex with you, right now, in the hay, hopefully brutally.'

Daddy barks that *sharp* laugh that means you've shocked the laugh out of him a little, but he also narrows his eyes. "Tell me what you *don't* like about this plan, mm? *Is* there someone out there you have a little pash for?" 

Oh — 

"If there is, son... this can help," Daddy says, and there's a weird *solemnity* in his voice, but — 

"Do you mean... I could be a better lover for... them?"

"For him...?" And Daddy shows his sharp canines. 

Porthos blushes and snorts. "Right, because I already did say — right. Yes, sir. For him." 

And Daddy strokes his cheek with thumb again. "You could tell me." 

And there's something inside him that says tell everything, tell it now, tell his *Daddy* and let him make it *better* — but. He shakes his head — 

He feels the *wrong* of doing that *immediately* — 

He feels it all *through* him — "Oh — shit." 

"Son..." 

"Daddy — I mean — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. Perhaps. Perhaps you just need to tell me later?" 

And, just like that, the weight and wrong and *wrong* — moves. It's not completely gone, but he can breathe, and look at his Daddy, and feel him — 

Feel him so close and so *good* — 

And 'later' maybe won't fix anything, but... it would show his Daddy that he's not a child, at least. 

Not — not *completely*. 

Porthos licks his lips and looks up. "Later, yeah, Daddy. At — the end of the night." 

And Daddy sighs and smiles — it looks like it hurts him a little — and leans in to bury his nose in Porthos's hair. 

Porthos lets him snuffle and nuzzle and kiss — 

Closes his eyes and tries to keep from *moaning* for it — 

And then Daddy pulls back. "You let your Daddy hang over you *far* too much, you know." 

Porthos grunts — "No —" 

"No?" And Daddy's expression is... odd. It's teasing and wild on the surface, but under it — 

Where Porthos can *feel* it — 

There's... so much hope. And need. It's there. It *is*, and — 

He needs his Daddy just as much. "I like it." 

Daddy wets his lips, quick and soft. "Still?" 

Porthos nods. "Yes, sir." 

Daddy growls — just for a moment. 

"Sir? You don't... like that?" Except that that growl didn't sound like anger, or aggression, or... 

He doesn't know. 

And Daddy isn't looking at him, anymore. 

He — 

Porthos checks to make sure none of the stableboys are watching, that none of them are in listening distance — "Daddy..." 

"*Son*." 

"I know I'm being — *wrong* today. I know I'm — I'm *presuming* —" 

"*No* —" 

"I know I'm mucking up *discipline*," Porthos says, and growls himself — 

And Daddy inhales sharply, and looks at him again, and — grins. "Well. That you are. But —" 

"But you're not right. And I'm not — *we're* not right." 

And Daddy looks at him and into him and — "No. We're not. But — we'll fix it. I *promise* we'll fix it." 

"Together?" 

Daddy grins, soft and sharp at once the way only he can. "My big, perfect boy. Of course together." 

"Daddy. I — I promise I'll do well tonight." 

Daddy — pants. "It's not a test. You're not — it's not a *test*. Not for you." 

"Then —" For who, he wants to say, but Arnaud is there, fussing over Daddy the way he always does, just as if Daddy would ever go with a man who's mean to stableboys. 

Not that he ever hurts them — not *really*. There's never quite *enough* reason for Uncle Laurent to toss him out on his arse, but he knows his Daddy and Uncles are always *looking* for some. 

So is he. 

He'll find it someday. He doesn't like his Daddy having to breathe the same *air* as the likes of Arnaud. 

Daddy doesn't like it, either, so they get horsed quickly, and get *out* even quicker than that. Daddy gives him a *look* when he tries steering Léon around the fountain using just his knees and thighs — he'd managed it *once*, and he *will* get it again, and then be able to do it *every* time — 

When he fails and has to be quick with the reins and the sweet-talking — 

When he makes an *arse* out of himself — 

Daddy laughs. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I *will* get it —" 

"Soon, probably, given how you're growing," Daddy says. 

"*You* don't ever try it." 

Daddy grins, and doesn't look at him. "I did it all the time when I was your age." 

"Oh — yeah?" 

"And hacked off a seemingly endless parade of horses with my arseholishness." 

"... oh." 

Daddy laughs. "No, son, keep it up. It *is* a useful trick. Think of all the reloading you'll have to do in the middle of battles while getting the *hell* out of the way of enemy fire." 

"*Oh* — oh, yeah!" 

"Exactly. I'd much rather have you driving Léon — and every other horse in our stables *and* the garrison's stables — spare than have you *not* able to guide your mounts with your thighs when the time comes." 

Porthos considers that... 

"You're wondering why we don't teach *all* the boys to do it?" 

"Well — yeah." 

"It's just not something that *can* be taught to most men unless they've been riding *regularly* since they were boys, son. Unless they *are* part horse. The other things — the guns, the knives, the swordsmanship, the hand-to-hand — are much easier to work into an older boy's — or a grown man's — mind." 

Porthos grunts. "Sometimes I'm not so sure about that, Daddy." 

Daddy barks that half-shocked laugh. "Son. The fact that *you* excel beyond all reason is *not* a reason to assume that the other men just can't learn." 

And Porthos feels his ears getting — just *ridiculously* hot. 

Daddy laughs *hard* — 

And Porthos bites his lip. "You... you really think I'm that much better? I mean... really?" 

"You're magnificent. And I can say that freely, because one of the *ways* you're magnificent is that you've been training with us since you were a boy, and you've been finding countless ways to excel *since* then, and you've *still* not grown a fat head." 

"I won't!" 

"I know," Daddy says, and smiles warmly at him in the mid-afternoon sun. 

Porthos licks his lips. "You — you've always been um. Really clear about how you feel about. Those kinds of men." 

Daddy stares at him for a long moment — "And I'm your measure for that sort of thing, son?" 

"For everything, Daddy." 

Daddy *growls* again — 

Looks *away* again — 

"Daddy —" 

"Your mother and I... would share a bed from time to time." 

Porthos's heart knocks, because — 

Because he *knew* that, but wherever Daddy *wants* to go with this — 

Whatever he wants to *say* — 

Porthos doesn't *know* what he wants Daddy to say, and that's bloody terrifying, but — 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

Daddy smiles ruefully. "I know you knew that. We both missed it terribly when you stopped crawling in with us." 

"Oh — fuck. I didn't want —" 

"To be a baby. We knew. You had to go your own way." 

"I'm sorry —" 

"Shh. It's all right. We spent an unconscionable amount of time looming over your bed while you slept. I did the same with your Uncles." 

"*Really*?" 

"You're a surprisingly deep sleeper, son. We'll have to work on that. Bad for tactics, that."

"I — um. What?" 

Daddy snickers like a boy and winks at him. 

Porthos snorts. "Daddy." 

"My son. I remember when Amina was just huge with you, and she still had that tiny bed..." 

"Oh. You shared with her then?" 

"Whenever *possible*. Even before the witches changed me, she smelled even better than she usually did. And, when I behaved well enough, she let us sleep face to face — with my arse hanging off the edge of the bed — so that when you kicked, I could feel it." 

Porthos swallows, and swallows his *need*. 

Daddy is — Daddy is his *father*. He's *never* going to *want* — 

It's so bloody *wrong* — 

"Son?"

Porthos shakes his head. 

This time, Daddy's growl *is* aggressive — 

It makes all the short hairs on Porthos's arms and the back of his neck stand up — 

"You know I can't leave that, son." 

Of course he can't. Daddy *loves* him — 

But. 

"It's. It's more of what I have to say later, Daddy," Porthos says, and focuses on Léon's twitching ears. *He* doesn't like Porthos's mood, either. Porthos rumbles a little and strokes Léon's neck, and mutters endearments in the most soothing voice he has — 

Just like Daddy taught him. 

And, just like Daddy taught him, it calms *him* down a little, too. 

Daddy's still riding a little closer, though. 

"I'm —" 

"I know you're all right, son. I... I can't help but be *upset* if someone's *hurting* you —" 

"No! It's not like that!" 

Daddy lifts his nose like he thinks Porthos is *lying* — 

"I *promise*." 

"You're still hurting, and I can tell that there's someone else's name on it." 

"No — no. It's just that. I don't think I can have what I... really want."

Daddy growls in frustration — "Let me *help* you —" 

"Daddy, *don't* — don't make me *say*, yet. *Please*," Porthos says, and now both their horses are upset. 

And Daddy blinks — 

Flares his nostrils — 

Looks and *feels* so *hungry* — 

"I promise — I promise I'll tell you everything," Porthos says. Even though it'll make you stop thinking I'm magnificent. 

Daddy makes that low, crooning sound that only comes out when he's frustrated and hungry and hurting *for* Porthos — 

"Daddy —" 

"Don't tell me you're not hurting, son. Don't —" Daddy shakes his head. "But, right now, I can't comfort you. Is that what you're saying?" 

Put like that, it's the cruelest thing in the world. Daddy *always* wants — but will he still want to? 

Wouldn't he feel like — like Porthos was taking advantage if he took the comfort now, once he knew?

Porthos bites his lip again and nods. 

"All right, son. I'll always let you go your own —" And then Daddy barks another laugh. 

Porthos blinks and looks up as Daddy guides his Lisle a safe distance away. "Daddy?" 

"I won't, you know." 

"You won't what?" 

Daddy gives him the sharp grin."You can go your own way *now*, son, but consider this a special dispensation from above. I'll always be on you. I'll always be *after* you. You're *my* boy, now and forever, and that's just how it's always going to be." 

Porthos can't hold back the *moan* — 

Daddy *blinks* — 

"I — yes, Daddy. I... I like that." Please don't ever change your mind! 

Daddy growls low. "I'll never break a promise to my perfect boy. Now show me how you check your perimeter." 

And they do just that for the rest of the ride. It's more challenging than usual, since the neighbourhoods are *better*, and it's tempting to pick out threats that really *aren't*, but Porthos keeps a level head as best as he can, and only makes two mistakes before they're at their destination.

"*Good* work, son. You'll remember about people setting up shop in open-air markets with wares that don't match the general quality of the wares around them?" 

"Yes, Daddy, I promise!" 

Daddy rumbles instead of responding in words — his dog is coming out more tonight than usual. 

A part of Porthos is only desperately running over and over the last time they'd hunted together, and Daddy had shifted all the way *into* a dog, huge and strong and *literally* magical, and stayed that way. 

They'd curled together in Porthos's bedroll after Porthos had done the work of dressing the meat they'd caught and they'd eaten — Daddy had had all of his raw, of course — and washed. 

Porthos had been... so hard. 

And there'd been a long, long moment when the dog who was and *wasn't* his Daddy had looked at him with those gleaming-glowing blue eyes — 

When he'd seemed to be asking a *question* — 

When Porthos had wanted to offer his hard cock and *beg* at the same time, offer his *arse* and beg — 

But he couldn't. 

He *couldn't*, and the dog had gotten up and gone to the other side of the fire and settled, and Porthos had tossed himself off hard and fast and *brutally* — 

Porthos had *yelled* when he spent — 

And then, *right* after Porthos had wiped his hand and belly with his handkerchief, the dog had come back. 

They'd slept. 

They'd — 

It's the dog that gives him the hope he knows he shouldn't have. The dog that lets him *believe* that maybe, somehow, even though he can't *really* imagine it, Daddy will let him... 

Daddy will give him what he needs. 

Because he had *known* about his father and Aunt Marie-Angelique, and he had *also* known that she was the first woman he'd really *chosen* that way, that the magic had somehow caused a *change*... 

That the dog had. 

And if the dog could do that, then couldn't it...? 

And what if there were ways to *make* Daddy closer to the dog sometimes? Good ways, not like this, not — 

"Son?" 

And Porthos *stops* — and realizes that he's just been standing there like a mound of hay while their horses were taken by this brothel's stableboys. 

He doesn't even know how good they are — 

He doesn't know if Léon will be properly *cared* for —

He checks — 

And Daddy snorts. "It's all right, son. The hostler here is top-notch, and he always keeps the best boys." 

"But —" 

"It's all *right*. But you'll keep a weather eye next time, I know," Daddy says, and smiles sharply as he claps Porthos's shoulder. 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "Yes, Daddy. I um — you're Sir here, right?" 

"Mm. That I am. Are you ready?" And Daddy searches him in the torchlight — 

Searches him *hard*, just as if he would back out without any disappointment — 

No. 

"I'm ready, sir." 

"Just remember, if you *don't* find anyone you like... there are other houses, and other *nights*." 

Porthos nods. He *will* find someone. He — will. 

Someone good *enough*. 

He follows Daddy into the house — 

And there's music playing — someone really pretty competent with a flute —

And bright, tasteful colors — 

And the air is perfumed — richly, but not *heavily* — 

And there are the sounds of subdued, but cheerful conversation. 

It doesn't take long before an older man — powdered and perfumed like a woman, but also somehow tastefully — melts out of the crowd to pay his respects to... both of them. 

The man — Tristan — treats Porthos like a man grown, though of course he defers to Daddy, and there's a certain thrill to that. 

There always is, considering how much time he spends being *decidedly* a boy at the garrison. 

Porthos tries to put a little more steel in his spine — and tries not to be *completely* obvious about looking around. 

There are... a lot of good-looking men and boys. 

A lot of *beautiful* men and boys. He'd grown up around Uncle Reynard and Uncle Laurent, so he's not *completely* stunned, but his Uncles all have *scars*. 

And they don't tend to lounge languidly on things. 

And they don't — 

They aren't... 

There's a boy, near the fireplace, with a book. It's thick — too thick, Porthos would think, for a place like this — and he's not languid, at all. He's *focused*, like he's *studying*, and that...

His hair is chestnut, with gold highlights, and a lot of waves. 

His skin is almost golden in the firelight. 

He's — 

He's frowning at the book, and taking notes — 

Writing *quickly*, as if he'll be interrupted — 

There's something *about* him, something —

Bright —

And then Daddy's soft beard is tickling Porthos's ear. "Is that the one you want, mm?" 

Porthos blinks. "Is he — I don't — does he... work? Here?" 

Daddy laughs. "Tristan tells me he goes by Aramis, and that he's more trouble than he's worth." 

"Oh —" 

"A good earner — too beautiful not to be — but not much repeat business, as he's a mouthy little prick. I like him already." 

"So do I!" 

Daddy laughs, low and dirty. "You saw him studying and wanted a *conversation*, didn't you." 

Shit — "Sorry — I can pick another —" 

"Don't you dare. I bet he's dying for a client with a brain in his head. Go on. I'll take care of the necessaries." 

Porthos blinks, turns to look at his Daddy — 

For some reason, it hadn't occurred to him that Daddy wouldn't be coming *with* him — 

That Porthos would be *alone* —- 

"Son...?" 

He can't ask for something different. 

He can't. 

He smiles ruefully. "Just nervous," he says, and shrugs. 

"Well, if he gets *too* mouthy, threaten to introduce him to your *family*, son," Daddy says, and *grins* — 

Porthos snorts and gives his Daddy a shove. "*Sir*." 

And Daddy pulls him into a tight hug that's much too brief, and whispers into his ear. "All will be well, son. And I'll be close enough for you to *call*. I know you know how." 

Oh — "Yes, sir —" 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and kisses his cheek before stepping back. "Now go get *your* boy." 

Porthos nods and takes a deep breath — 

And, when he checks, Aramis is giving him a long, level, and *dissecting* look. 

Porthos leaves himself open for it and crosses the room to his table.


	4. There was a point at which you had control of this conversation, Aramis. I hope you cherished it.

"Do you mind if I join you?" the boy asks, and the question is... curiously sincere. 

It's not that there's never sincerity offered to Aramis in this place, but... no. Better to observe, and reserve all judgments for later. He gestures to the other chair as gracefully as he can. "Everything — and everyone — here is for *your* pleasure, sir." 

The boy blushes... like a boy. He is most assuredly a virgin, which means that Aramis can get this done with quickly and go back to his reading — or. 

Tristan had treated the Musketeer — and there is an ache for this that Aramis *must* deny, must *ignore* — who'd come in with the boy like gentry. 

There are always *great* rewards for the boys and men who please *those* clients, and rather greater... difficulties for those who displease those clients. 

He does not... 

He does not have the fortitude for this, this week. 

Quite. 

So. He pulls on his best smile. "May I have your name?" 

The boy frowns. "Don't do that. And — I'm Porthos." 

Aramis blinks. "Do...? I don't know —" 

"Please don't smile if you don't want to, Aramis. That is the name you prefer, right?" 

Aramis blinks *more* — "I — yes..." No. He regroups. "You are a Musketeer in training?" 

"That I am," the boy — *Porthos* says and smiles with quiet pride in himself. 

Aramis *aches* — no. No. "Perhaps... you have learned much about... reading people?" 

Porthos frowns *lightly* — he doesn't have a face for much deeper frowns than that. "D'you mean like books? Getting... the meaning of them? The truth of them, like?" 

Oh... "Yes," Aramis says, and offers one of his real smiles. "You are a reader of books as well as people?" 

Porthos nods and grins. "Maman, she insisted. I loved reading with her before she died. And I suppose I do 'read' people. You have to, if you're going to be any good at protecting people, or yourself." And then Porthos's expression turns thoughtful for a moment — and he looks at Aramis. "*You* 'read' people all the time, don't you?" 

This...

This boy is not like — no. 

Reserve judgment. Aramis offers about half a shrug — gracefully. "It is a good idea, in this line of work, to have multiple ways to see what a client wants, yes?" 

For some reason, this makes Porthos smile *broadly*. He has dimples like *wells*. "You're so educated!" 

"You like this much," Aramis says, folding his arms on the table and offering a *teasing* smile. 

"Well, 'course I do — and you can stop that, like I said —" 

"You are very good at this —" 

"Are you testing me, Aramis?" 

*Oh*. Aramis grins. "I test everyone." 

Porthos grins back. "I'm good at tests, y'know." 

"And you like this about yourself very much." 

Porthos blinks. "Well — yeah. I like being good at things. Who *doesn't* like being good at things?" 

This smile is, perhaps, too real. And too cruel. "There are many skills one could wish *not* to have, Porthos." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Like?" 

"Do you wish my secrets so soon? What will you give me for them?" 

Another blush, apparently. 

Boys are predictable. "I believe I will —" 

"What would you like?" 

Aramis *stops* his next tease — and licks his lips. 

And considers. 

And — all right. "To find some way to study," he says, and caresses his Bible, "while also pleasing you." 

Porthos — grins. "*That* was honest." 

"Yes —" 

"Would talking about what you're studying help?" 

Aramis *blinks* — "I..." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows again. "No? I ask because it helps me a lot. Like drawing my own map of a given territory instead of just studying someone else's." 

"You... want to help me study?" 

Porthos grins. "I'd like to see what you were so focused on. You looked like there should've been smoke coming out of your ears." 

Aramis wets his lips — and takes the time to look the boy over. To look this *Porthos* over. 

He is... younger than he looks, perhaps? 

Older and looking more for companionship than anything else? It *happens*, though rarely to Aramis, and — no. 

Porthos is not very old. He cannot be. His eyes — 

No. 

For all of his *impressive* size and obviously well-developed musculature — he works *hard* to be a Musketeer someday, and it would be interesting to know what his relationship is to the noble who had brought him in, since there is no *family* resemblance whatsoever. He — 

"You could *ask* me some of those questions, Aramis," Porthos says, and he is... laughing. Cheerful. *Amused*. 

"You are confusing me," Aramis says honestly, and frowns — also honestly. 

"Let me guess — that happens just about as often as blue moons." 

Aramis nods. 

Porthos licks his lips. "Not just educated, then. *Smart*." 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "Yes." 

Porthos *grins*. "Ask me questions, Aramis. I'll answer them — and maybe you'll answer mine?" 

"Did you want to test *me*?" 

"Seems like it would be only fair..." 

Aramis purses his lips. "What does 'fair' mean to you?" 

"It doesn't have just one meaning." 

"No?" 

Porthos shakes his head. "Or — no, it does, but it's this: 'Fair' is what happens when everyone in a transaction goes home happy and *stays* happy even when all the masks and covers and what-not are pulled off. No matter what." 

Oh... "I like this definition," Aramis says, and gives Porthos another real smile. 

"I like that smile. But I can't take credit — I learned it from my Uncle. One of my Uncles." 

"Yes? Another Musketeer?" 

"A former one. That sickness five years ago —" 

"It hurt his lungs, yes?" 

"Mm-hm. And killed my mother and the babe inside her, too, *and* two of the maids. It was... hard on the whole family," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully.

Aramis winces. "My father... well. Even though it seemed as though he should've been old enough for the ague to pass him by... he was not." 

Porthos nods. "I'm sorry." 

Aramis is not, except in tangential ways. But... this is not what you say. "The mayor of my town sold me and the few other orphans to the Church. I did not agree with this plan in the least, and so, when I could, I ran away." 

"And wound up here." 

Aramis inclines his head.

"Is this where you want to stay?" 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. "No." 

"And I can just take the rest of my questions on that topic and shove 'em?" 

Oh — Aramis grins, despite himself — 

Porthos grins *back* — 

And Aramis looks down for a moment, to try to take control of his expression *back* — 

"You can tell me, you know." 

A moment, a moment — there. "Tell you? Tell you what, beautiful boy?" 

Porthos blushes *deeply* — 

And, to be frank, a moment of unquestionably having the upper hand is more than worth another smile. 

And a wink. And —

"You *are* beautiful. Too beautiful to be as inexperienced as we both know you are, mm?" 

"I —" 

"A gentle, *tender* virgin — so young!"

"Aramis —" 

"Will you blush the whole time? Mm?" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"Will you let me show you what *I* am good at?" 

Porthos inhales *sharply* — 

Aramis lets himself show his teeth and lean *in* — 

And Porthos growls and leans *back* — 

No — 

"Don't — I — I think I'm starting to figure out what you don't *like* being good at, very much." 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"At least I hope I am," Porthos says, low and serious, "because that was an attack, and I'm reasonably bloody sure that I've not done anything worth that. Or have I?" 

Aramis *starts* to shake his head — 

"Or is it that you're just *accustomed* to people being worth the worst of you?" 

"That — that was not the worst of me," Aramis says, and starts to feel *sick*, because — 

"No? Then I'm a mite worried, mate." 

Because that. Aramis takes a breath — 

And another — 

And — 

"I was going to say that you could tell me, if you wanted to, what you *didn't* want me to talk about. I'm really not an arsehole. I'm not — I don't hurt people who don't deserve it." 

Aramis looks at the table. "And I have done exactly this." 

"To be *fair*, you've no idea if I'm a raging prick or not. But."

Aramis firms his lips into a hard line — and then he looks back up, and offers Porthos his hand. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows, and — 

And Aramis flushes. 

And leaves his hand right where it is. 

After another moment, Porthos takes it and shakes it firmly. "Porthos du Vallon de Tréville." 

*de Tréville*. Lesser gentry by blood — and Porthos is obviously adopted — but still well within the halls of power. And. "Aramis. Only Aramis. My birth name no longer has anything to do with who I am." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "I know a lot of men like that. Two of my three Uncles, for a brace." 

Aramis... wets his lips. "They say many Musketeers take new names upon gaining their commissions." 

"Very true. It's a way of devoting themselves to their new families." 

"Gentry do not do this, yes?" 

Porthos smiles wryly. "Like we'd let ourselves get away with anything like that. Gentry who step too far in one direction make other gentry feel cowardly and small for *not* stepping too far in *any* direction. So they get stepped *on*. *Hard*," he says, and raises a hand. "Before you ask, I'm quoting my father, who gets away with a *lot* more than most, because his father saved a lot of noble and royal arses — and thus got to be noble himself — and then he just picked up where his old man left off." 

"And you will do the same?" 

And that gets another *blush* — and a smile. "I'd like to. There's no one I admire more than my father." 

"Even though he has chosen to bring you to *this* brothel...?" 

"I told *him* that I didn't want a woman or a girl, Aramis," Porthos says, and smiles *ruefully*. "Not that I'm not interested, but... not for my first time. I don't have any particular *issue* with buggery, no matter what the Church has to say about it." 

This... boy. Well. "Very well. *Would* you like to know what I was studying, friend Porthos?" 

"*Friend* Porthos? I like *that*," Porthos says, and grins. "And yes, please, *absolutely* show me —" 

Aramis opens his Bible, turns it round, and pushes it across the table. 

And waits — 

And *waits* — 

"Uh... what? You... you're... religious?" 

Aramis laughs just a *little* meanly. "I am. But, I must admit, not in very many of the *same* ways that Mother Church would have us all be." 

Porthos blinks and frowns. — 

And Aramis taps the Book. "There are many secrets in a *true* Bible that Church fathers would rather their parishioners not *ever* think about." 

Porthos blinks more — and grins. "Like what?"

And Aramis's heart... stutters, a bit. "This... you'd like to talk about —" 

"*Yes*." 

Aramis licks his lips. "I will tell you the most important thing. The thing on which all other things are — oh. Your father is coming." 

"What?" 

"Perhaps there is some emergency...?" And Aramis finds himself *horribly*, *stupidly* panicked — he doesn't want this boy taken from him!

Not *yet* — 

But still the old soldier comes — 

And Porthos — *his* Porthos, for this little time — is turning away — 

*Standing* — 

"Yes, sir?" 

The old soldier — *Treville* — is not much taller than Porthos, and... he has very kind eyes. *Warm* eyes. 

There's more than a touch of *deviance* to them, but not necessarily in *bad* ways, and — 

He cups his son's broad shoulder — 

He doffs his *hat* to Aramis and smiles — 

Aramis bows — 

"I've secured a suite for you boys whenever you're ready to use it. There's no rush for anything. Remember that." 

Porthos blushes still more — and smiles with great love and a fascinating degree of *hunger* at his father. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." 

It makes Treville narrow his eyes just a little *hotly*... hm. 

That's worth thought. 

After another moment that seems to *linger*, Porthos and Treville break eye contact, and Treville leaves them to, by the looks of it, flirt with Hercule, the bouncer. 

He is a man of taste. 

Aramis knows that Hercule *also* once had another name, and that he was in the Army for many years. 

Aramis has always liked old soldiers. 

Hercule, being the bouncer, is allowed a certain number of 'considerations', but Tristan tots these up closely. Aramis has let Hercule know, more than once, that *he* doesn't keep score for men such as him. 

Good men. 

Strong and caring and protective and — oh. Treville is already making Hercule laugh his deep, rich belly-laugh —

Aramis should not be so *protective*, so *possessive* — 

There is nothing in this house that is *his* — 

But. Hercule turns and blows *him* a kiss. 

Good. Very good. 

Aramis smiles and bows demurely — he must save his kisses for Porthos now — and *turns* back to Porthos — 

Who is smiling curiously at him. 

With *interest*. 

Friendly, open —

"Hercule is one of our guards," Aramis says. 

"I'd picked that up. My father almost always gravitates to guards, since he so often *is* one. Well, at least the *good* guards." 

"Hercule is the best!" 

"Yeah, I can see Army on him," Porthos says, and gives him another look. "Probably one hell of a horseman in his day." 

"Oh... you can see...?" 

"You get so you can. There are a few tricks you can teach anyone. Like looking at the rhythm of how a man walks, and how a man chooses to stand *still*, and how a man chooses to lean on things — if he does — just for a start, but after a while, you just start... feeling your own kind." 

Aramis would like, very much, for soldiers to be his own kind. 

He would — 

He would, and there is nothing else to say to that. 

"Aramis?" 

And — there is a test he has not offered. There is a test no one, truly, has *made* it far enough that Aramis could even *think* of offering it to them — 

And there are a lot of other tests Porthos could and should pass before... 

Before Aramis even thinks about — "This is not where I want to be," he says, and he knows he sounds both haughty and young.

Porthos nods. "Then where?" 

Aramis catches Porthos catching *him* squeezing at his own folded arms — but he will not stop here. "I wish to be a soldier." 

"*Oh*," Porthos says, and grins broadly. "In the Army or one of us, eh? Do you ride? Do you shoot? Have you ever —" 

"That. That is your reaction?" 

Porthos blinks. "What else would it be? You're healthy *and* smart *and* educated, and you've got a whole *lot* of natural grace — I can tell that even though you've barely moved. You talked about losing your father and about having no connection to your birth-name — that's even better. Musketeers make their families in the *regiment*, and basically nowhere else. You clearly already get on with soldiers, going by how much Hercule over there likes you, and my father liked you just by Tristan's *description* of you. *I did, too* —" 

"Tristan — no. He would've advised *against* me, because I am 'mouthy' and difficult —" 

"Mouthy and difficult boys can make the best soldiers — if it's what they actually want." 

And Aramis stares — 

And stares — 

And — wants. 

And Porthos reaches across the table with his huge hands to cup Aramis's own where he's squeezing them. "So what would it take, eh?" 

"What — what?" 

"What would it take to get you out of here and to the garrison where you belong?" 

Aramis bites his lip. "I have — some money —" 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't — *don't* —" 

"Shh, 's all right, you know a *lot* of the boys work there while they're in training. *Are* you any good with horses?" 

"I — yes — I had my own, when I was a boy, and I shoot very well — no." He can't. "No, Porthos, I have *debts*. I'm saving money against them. Tristan..." Aramis shrugs, and it feels like all of his bones and joints are made of broken glass and rusted metal. "Many of us are indebted to him for feeding us and giving us clothes and toiletries and other necessary things — like a place to stay." And Aramis pulls back. "It is not so simple, friend Porthos." 

Porthos stares at his empty hands for long moments, and then frowns *hard* — 

And then seems to be... concentrating? 

Aramis isn't certain, but he *stops*, and there's a guilty look on his face for a moment — and then he turns around and gestures a come-on to his father. He — 

Aramis can't —

Aramis can't control his scrambled thoughts enough to think about what this can be. Can't think enough to decide whether to hope or fear or — 

He doesn't know. 

He waits. 

He looks down at the table — 

He tries to make sense of his *Bible* — 

"What is it, son? You looked... urgent." 

"Aramis doesn't belong here, sir. He wants to be a soldier —" 

"Now that's the curious thing," Treville says, and Aramis feels the man's light blue eyes on him like *brands*. "Hercule over there said the same thing, more or less. And had some highly complimentary things to say about his shooting, among other things." 

"Oh — he's a horseman, too, sir —" 

"And he needs to be out of *here*, and with *us* — but he has debts to pay." 

Aramis shudders and doesn't hug himself. 

He —

He doesn't feel like a man of fifteen, right now. 

He feels like a boy, small and helpless and pushed — 

"Aramis," Treville says, and his voice is — low. Rumbling. There is a comfort to it. 

"Oui, M'sieu." 

"Please look up at me." 

"I would rather —" 

"No," Treville says. "Show me the man you are, and the man you would like to *be*." 

Aramis *grunts* — and looks up because he must, because there's no option, because — 

Oh, but he's *standing* — 

"This — this is what I came to Paris *for*," he says, and that was too loud, and that was more of a *growl*, and Tristan will be — 

And Treville grins. "That's just what I needed to know. You're coming home with us tonight, son." 

"What — I — no —" 

"We'll see about other living arrangements for you tomorrow," Treville says, and raises an eyebrow. 

*Pointedly*. 

Is Aramis going to let someone else buy him? 

Is he going to let this happen before he can *think*? 

Aramis turns to Porthos, who is also standing — 

*Smiling* — 

"Does your father give you everything you wish?" 

"Yeah, pretty much. He knows I don't ask for anything bad for me — or anyone else," Porthos says, and gives Aramis a level look. 

Aramis bites back *several* responses to that which would be, truly, only the verbal equivalent of the shocked screams happening in his mind. 

He — 

He has to ask *one* question. "How will I pay you both *back*? Mm?" 

Treville is already putting his riding gloves back on. He lifts his chin. "You'll work hard at your training, every day you're capable of it. Eventually, you'll be capable of that level of hard work every day, full stop." 

"What *else*?" 

Treville shakes his head once. "You won't earn your keep on your knees, if that's what you're thinking. You'll go with exactly who you want — or no one at all. Just like all the other recruits." 

"But —" 

"Listen very carefully, Aramis: Every recruit is an investment of time, money, and resources. The amount of those things is never exact. You already know how to read, shoot, and handle horses — that means we'll have to spend *less* time, money, and resources in those areas. Do you see where I'm getting at?" 

Aramis doesn't *hug* himself — 

He doesn't *moan* — 

But. "Yes." 

"Good —" 

"Yes, sir." 

And Treville's eyes gleam — they almost seem to *glow*! — as he looks at Aramis for a long moment. "You'll do just fine, Aramis."

"Thank you, sir." 

Treville *growls* — and then laughs, hard. "You boys wait here while I settle up." 

Porthos grins bright and beautiful as he claps Aramis on the shoulder. "Yes, sir!" 

Aramis shivers. His own smile is no smaller. "Yes, sir." 

They watch Treville walk away — 

And Porthos immediately steps close. "All right?" 

Aramis's laughter for that is — hopelessly explosive. "I do not think that is the phrase for what I'm *feeling*, friend Porthos." 

"Something tells me that's not entirely good." 

"I — I —" 

"What makes you feel good, then? What makes you feel calm?" 

Aramis blinks... and looks at his Bible. 

Porthos grins. "Yeah? You were going to tell me a little about that." 

"You still wish...?" 

"I want to get to know you. You're going to be my *brother*." 

Aramis makes a *harsh* noise, and picks *up* the Bible, and turns to the New Testament. "If you start here, you will meet a different God than the God who is generally preached to us." 

Porthos blinks. "But — what?" 

"The God of the New Testament — the New *Covenant* — brings with Him peace, and brotherhood, and love, and acceptance, and *redemption*." All of those things for *all* people who accept the Christ, not just the merest few who manage to follow the many strict and conflicting laws in the *Old* Testament —" 

"What — that —" 

"— which, another thing, Mother Church both chooses to ignore the truths of the New Covenant while plastering its imagery all over its cathedrals —" 

"Wait — it —" 

"— but it also ignores *most* of the laws of the Old Covenant — the ones which are inconvenient and would lead to the Church Fathers impoverishing themselves —" 

"Wait, wait — no, all right, that last bit makes *perfect* sense —" 

"Does it not?" 

"But..." And Porthos frowns and licks his lips —

Eyes Aramis's Bible as if it is the most *deadly* of weapons — 

It is, it *is* — 

"I —" 

"One moment, Aramis," Porthos says, and looks down into his eyes. 

Porthos's eyes are nearly black in the candlelight. Porthos's eyes are wide and beautiful — no — "I'm listening." 

"What you're saying is that the Bible — the thing that's open on the altar the whole time the priest is *saying Mass* —" 

"Yes —" 

"It's directly contradicting half the bloody things he's saying to us?" 

"Yes! Or more! Or *much* more!" 

"But... how do they... *how*?" 

Aramis smiles slyly. "Do *you* read your Bible? I know you must own one, because you are gentry, but..." 

"It uh. It's a bit dusty." 

Aramis sets his Bible down and spreads his hands. "Most people, they cannot afford such a luxury —" 

"Assuming they can afford to learn to bloody *read* — fuck. Wait, though, how do we know the *Bible* is right." 

"*Porthos*!" 

"*Well*? If the whole bloody Church is wrong —" 

"The Bible is *old*. As old as *the Christ*." 

"And you're sure about that? The *Church* is old, too —" 

Aramis growls. He can't — he can't stop himself — 

And Porthos blinks — and grins. "*Or* I could shut my gob." 

"No — no! I do not want that!" 

"Are you *sure*?" And Porthos is still grinning, still amused, still happy — 

"You... are pleased to find a point of passion for me?" 

"Something that moves you, yeah. Something that makes you happy and just... devoted. You're a pious man." 

Aramis blushes, but — "Many would not say this." 

"Well, many are sodding idiots. You may not be pious the way *most* people are, but..." And Porthos nods to the Book. "I bet you could leave everything you own here behind except for that.

Aramis blushes *harder* — and tugs his rosary out of his shirt. "And this... but yes." 

"Was that your —" 

"Mother's. I did not know her well — she died when I was very young — but... I like to think I would have been close to her."

"I feel that way about my little sister Jeannette. She wasn't even born, yet, but I still think about her, just, all the time. I've always wanted a sibling." 

Oh... "Especially a sister? And how did you know that you would *have* a sister?" 

Porthos grins again, and very, *very* subtly looks around for other listeners — 

"We are alone; no one but Hercule likes me here, tell me —" 

And Porthos moves closer, and doesn't *quite* press his plush lips to Aramis's ear. "Sometimes *our* devotions take us into the company of witches, Aramis." And then he steps back, and raises his eyebrows. 

And Aramis blinks — 

And blinks and blinks and — 

"You must tell me everything!" 

Porthos laughs. "I will, when we're home." 

Home. Home? "But —" 

"The *gist* is that Maman got to know things that other people just didn't. Daddy tells me that she knew right away that I was going to be a boy, and, after I was born, she always knew when I was *about* to start fussing for food, or to be changed. Things like that." 

Daddy? But — "*She* was a...?" 

Porthos shakes his head. "But um... they liked her. Three of them in particular. They gave her... presents." 

Aramis thinks his eyes must be as wide as *saucers* — 

He can feel himself wanting to crawl down Porthos's throat for entirely non-sexual *reasons*, and — 

And. 

This is good, is it not? 

He must *test* this — this *family's* resolve about him not earning his keep on his knees, and he will not do this very well if *he* is flirting. 

"Aramis?"

He is... not very good at not flirting if he is not trying to chase someone *away*. 

"All right, mate?" 

He is not very good at not flirting if he *is* trying to chase someone away, and — "I... am at a loss." 

Porthos nods, and his eyes are wide and sympathetic — "I'll help any way I can —" 

"Why?" 

"Because I like you —" 

"*Why*?" 

Porthos blinks — "Because you're smart, funny, passionate, protective, a reader —" 

"I —" 

"— go *after* the things you want fucking *bravely* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"— and a little because I think the real you — the *real*, real you — is someone even more than that. Even... even deeper than that." 

Aramis stops. And stares. 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and smiles gently. "I know you haven't taken off all the masks. How can you, in this job? But we'll go home, and you'll feel better —" 

"You — you are very young." 

"I am, yeah. And — I was sheltered. Not like you. I know there's a lot I don't understand. But — I hope you'll explain it to me." 

Aramis swallows and — 

And. 

"Why?" 

And Porthos cocks his head to the side. "Mayhap you'll be riding with *me* one day, eh?" 

"Riding — when. We are both Musketeers?" 

Porthos grins and nods. "Brothers — and brothers-in-arms. Daddy and my Uncles — they always said it worked better when you knew everything about the men at your back, and they knew everything about you. That it wasn't *enough* to know he'd always break left for *this* kind of attack, or aim low when an enemy did *this* thing. That you had to know what scared him at night, and what got him out of his bedroll of a morning. That *that* was what really made a unit successful." 

"And... your father's unit —" 

"The best. When they lost my Uncle Kitos to that ague, they lost a *lot*, but Daddy and Uncle Reynard together are still my Uncle Laurent's — the Captain's — best pair." 

And *that* — "Your — the *Captain* is one of your Uncles?" 

Porthos frowns. "This is getting to be too much for you, isn't it?" 

"I — no." 

Porthos looks at him. 

Aramis — doesn't snarl. Much. 

Porthos bites his lip. 

Aramis doesn't snarl much *more* when it just makes him look even more *beautiful* and — 

*Fuck* — 

Fuck — 

*Fuck*. "I apologize," Aramis says — 

"I'm not going to accept that." 

Aramis blinks and *stares* — 

"You haven't done anything to apologize for, Aramis," Porthos says, in a low and rumbling voice — 

That. "Did you learn that from your father?" 

"I um — probably. No, yeah, I did," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "I still want you to feel better. It's not — false." 

Aramis nods and — bites his own lip. "I can tell. I — I want to apologize again." 

"Would it make you feel better if I accepted it?" 

Aramis takes a *breath* — "Perhaps?" 

"Then I accept. You're forgiven. Tell me more about the bible?" He does not capitalize it in his mind. 

Aramis can hear that. "I — do you want to know?" 

"Yes —" 

"Right now?" 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

"Or do you want me to feel better?" 

Porthos smiles ruefully again. "All right, you've caught me. I'm worried about making you snarl, and thus making you want to apologize again —" 

"Oh, God —" 

"Which — you're allowed to *argue* with me —" 

"I don't want... ah." 

"You don't like arguing? Or you don't like arguing with people you feel like you owe everything to?" 

Aramis raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos nods. "Maman told me a *little* about this —" 

"You are... a very dutiful son," Aramis says, and doesn't know where he wants to go with it, at all. 

He doesn't know if there *is* anywhere good he can go with it — 

At what point will he learn how to shut his *mouth*? "I — I'm —" 

"Sorry...?" Porthos smiles gently again. "I think it's easy to be a dutiful son when you have parents who are really good to you," he says, and — he is absolutely asking a question. 

He is asking a question that Aramis has absolutely *invited* — 

He must *stop* this — 

"I — no," Aramis says, weakly, and shakes his head. 

"All right," Porthos says, easily. "What else do you like to read? *Do* you have other books?" 

Aramis — breathes. "Not of my own. I've tried to save my money better than this." 

"Understandable." 

"But... there is love poetry here. Some of it is quite good... if you like that sort of thing..." 

Porthos cocks his head to the side again. "Do you?" 

And that — Aramis smiles, small and a little painful on his face. "I do. I like... beautiful things." 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment, and seems about to say *something* — no. 

Aramis *knows* what he wants to say, *feels* it — Porthos may want a brother, but he *also* wants a *lover*. 

He *will* make Aramis earn — 

But Porthos shakes his head and smiles. "I think I want to learn more about what you find beautiful, mate." 

"You... think?" 

"Well, if I think it's ugly..." And Porthos shows his teeth a little. 

Aramis coughs a laugh despite himself. "Porthos —" 

"Of course, your taste *could* be just that good..." 

"It *is*!" 

Porthos grins. "Yeah, eh? The love poetry is really um. Moving? What is love poetry *for*? I mean, isn't it depressing if you don't have anyone to share it with?" 

"It is an *uplifting* kind of depression!" 

Porthos looks at him. 

"It *is*." 

"I — I *do* believe you —" 

"You do not, but you *will*, I'll *show* you, come —" 

But then Treville walks back in with two of the stableboys, and — the stableboys are carrying saddlebags. 

*Full* saddlebags. 

Aramis knows what is in them, and the skin-crawling sensation of knowing that his belongings were rifled through and packed without his permission — 

No. He has his purse, he has his rosary, and he has his Bible. That is, truly, all he needs. 

Porthos moves close to him again — "They weren't supposed to touch your things. Daddy's hacked-off." 

Aramis blinks. "What — how do you —" 

"It's in his jaw, see. He's good enough that it's not always in his eyes, but a lot of the time he can't keep it out of his face." 

To him, Treville looks no more or less grim than he has before, but then... most people cannot keep their emotions out of their eyes.

Treville is a man who knows this well. 

Still — "How did *you* know that they were not supposed to pack my things?" 

Porthos steps back and looks at him as if he is mad. "You're not our bloody *property*, Aramis." 

And that. "Do you have... human property?" 

Porthos growls. "My mother was born a slave. *We* don't hold to that sort of thing."

Aramis *blinks* — "I... I did not know." 

"No, of course you didn't. I'm sorry —" 

"No, don't —" 

"Shh," Porthos says, and holds up his hands. "I get used to people making assumptions when they don't immediately know *precisely* who I am — and who my *father* is. Except I don't get used to it, at all, because I think of everything Maman had to go through before she met my father — and after — and I get just a mite too stroppy with people who don't deserve it, sometimes. I'm. *Sorry*," Porthos says, and the light in his eyes is hard and — not young. 

Not young, at all. Aramis takes a breath. "You're forgiven." 

"Am I? Because you don't *have* to —" 

"You were young when your mother died. I think, perhaps, you would have taken some healing if you had been old enough to protect her from *something* before you lost her —" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"— but you were not. And so all the old hurts weigh on you. I... I know a little about this," he says, and looks to Hercule, who has protected him from much, and cared for him, and pleasured him, and *cosseted* him whenever possible. 

Aramis has done little more than listen to his stories of the friends and *brothers* he had lost, of the *existence* that he couldn't accept *without* those brothers... 

"He's been good to you." 

"I. I would like to be able to visit him, from time to time," he says, and doesn't look at Porthos. 

"Of course. I mean, your training's going to take up a lot of your time, but — when's *his* day off, hey? Maybe he can come down to the garrison." 

"You — and your father, and your *Uncle* — would allow this thing?" 

"Other men's families and sweethearts and such visit them all the time. So long as they don't kick up too much of a fuss or take up *too* much time..." And Porthos shrugs. 

Aramis shivers again. "Hercule knows the ways of soldiers. He will — he will," Aramis says, and can't say anything else. 

"You're tensing up again." 

"I — it just occurred to me that you'll also be renting me a *horse*, or having me ride double, or — or — " 

"It's not too much." 

"*Porthos* —" 

"It's not. Too. Much. Not for you."

And this — no. Aramis takes *another* breath. "I will be braver than this —" 

"Or you'll keep being honest. I like that." 

"Do you enjoy my *cowardice*?" 

"It's not bloody cowardice if it's a rational fear, Aramis." 

"Are you. Are you quoting your father again?" 

"I am, yeah. And my Uncles. And Maman, though she said it differently. It was *hard* growing up in a house with honest-to-God *heroes*. People who had saved other people's lives bloody *yesterday*. People who had saved the *Crown*. People who had fought off madmen *bristling* with weapons — apparently Maman had to fight a lot, too. I *should've* already known that, but I didn't, because she protected me — anyway, do you see?" 

"You... didn't want to ever admit to fear." 

"*That*. I didn't want to be a *baby*. Or — maybe it was more like a 'baby', because I think I missed out on a few things by trying to grow up too fast." 

Aramis licks his lips — 

Checks on Treville — he is dressing a very chastened Tristan down. That... oh. 

For him?

"There — he'll show you a lot bloody more respect *now*," Porthos says, with some measure of satisfaction. "Probably Hercule, too." 

"I *want* that," Aramis blurts — 

"We'll make sure of it, then," Porthos says, and nods. 

"I. What did you miss?" 

"Mm?" 

Aramis studies Porthos. His broad, clear brow; his dimpled cheeks, his soft, pink mouth, his barely-fuzzy chin... 

He doesn't say: 'I feel like a deviant with you,' because, somehow, he doesn't. Despite the fact that he has with *all* of the boys he was given to — 

Well, he was usually training them for older men. Taking a *measure* of their innocence to make it easier for the men in their lives to take the rest. 

Porthos *is* innocent, but only in some few limited ways, and — 

"Aramis?" 

And if he *is* here to make things easier for another man once again, Porthos would, perhaps, be entirely pleased about that. It bears thought. "I... would like to know what you thought you missed — stole from yourself? — by trying not to be a 'baby'." 

Porthos smiles — and blushes a little as he looks down — 

"Oh, yes...?" Aramis grins and tries to see Porthos's beautiful, expressive eyes — 

And Porthos laughs. "Daddy's affectionate. I let him be — a *lot* more than other boys my age would tolerate from their parents, I think." 

Oh, really. "You enjoy his touch?" 

"Everything's better when he's touching me. Everything's *clearer*," Porthos says, looking up — and into the distance. "Even when I'm having a *great* day, having his hand on the back of my neck will just... take it that much farther." 

Oh, *really* — "And... you think you have *denied* yourself some of his touch?" 

"I know I have," Porthos says, and sighs sadly. "I used to crawl in with him and Maman for cuddles when I was little, you know —" 

"Many children do," Aramis says *neutrally* — 

And Porthos *immediately* snaps out of his reverie and focuses on *him*. "That... there was something false in there." 

This — incredible and incredibly perverse boy. A part of him is calculating how to get out with another lie. The rest... is deeply invested in having more and more and more of how his *mind* works, and the only currency for *that* is truth. "Not false. I was only..." Aramis shakes his head. "Many children crawl in with their parents for comfort, for... the good feelings. Perhaps most do — I have heard this thing from a lot of different people, friend Porthos!" 

"But *you* didn't do it and the thought of it always seemed... more than a little weird?" 

"'Weird' is not the word. 'Like the prologue to a *beating*' is closer." 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"Please, do not —" 

"I won't ask you *more* about that. I'm *sorry* for bringing up bad memories!" 

"Shh, no —" 

"No wonder you're so bothered by me bringing up my parents all the time —" 

"They have been good to you. They have taught you and cared for you and guided you and... no. They are part of who you are in all the best ways, Porthos. I must know about them."

"You. Must?"

Now you look young, beautiful boy. *Now* you do. "If we are... to be brothers."

Porthos *growls*. "I *want* that. I want — tell me what *you* want, eh? I want to give it to you." 

"How much *can* you give me, beautiful Porthos? There is too much!" 

Porthos grunts — 

Steps *closer* —

And steps back. 

"You liked that name?" And Aramis grins — 

"Did you like giving it to me?" 

"You're a beautiful young man — in many ways. And I like telling the truth to you," Aramis says, and discovers that he's being nothing but honest. 

"Something about *that* was a surprise," Porthos says, and smiles wryly. 

"I. I was thinking, earlier, that I flirt more easily than I don't. Even when it's the last thing that I *wish* to do." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "I have to spend so much time being The Son of The Treville that I catch myself doing it even when I *don't* have to. Do you think it's anything like that?" 

"Perhaps," Aramis says, and stares up into Porthos's eyes, and — 

And — 

"Please," he says, "tell me more about what you're missing. What you've missed." Because if I can remember that you wish to make love with your father, perhaps I can stop wishing to kiss you. 

Porthos licks his lips and stares *down* into Aramis's eyes. "There was something there you didn't say." 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "You will pull it out of me effortlessly later." 

"Does that bother you?" 

"I like being honest with you, beautiful Porthos. I am not certain that I *like* liking being honest with you," Aramis says, and grins. 

Porthos laughs and grins, and oh — 

Oh — 

He gives Aramis a *shove*. 

It is a *problem* that Aramis would rather have had a caress. Does Porthos know how? Would his big hands be clumsy? Rough? Demanding — 

And Porthos sighs. "Daddy told me tonight that he and Maman *missed* it when I stopped crawling in with them. That I could've had — more of that." Porthos shakes his head. "It's not like they shared a bed all that *often*." 

"No...?"

Porthos shakes his head. "Maman had her lovers; Daddy had his. They were more like, you know, siblings." 

"Your family gets more and more fascinating, Porthos..." 

Porthos grins sharply. "Your family, too, now, mate." 

"I —" 

"Are you boys about ready?" And Treville looks back and forth between them. He's a courteous distance away, and, while he does look annoyed, he doesn't look annoyed at *them* — or him. 

Porthos looks to Aramis — 

And Aramis is... much calmer than he had been. "I am, sir." 

"Would you like to look over the house? You have the run of it to make sure no one made off with any of your belongings while they were packing you up decidedly *without* authorization," Treville says. 

Aramis blinks — but. Of course Treville could make that happen. "No, sir. All is well. As I was saying to Porthos, all I ever truly need is my Bible and my rosary — and even these things can be purchased anew." 

Treville *blinks* — and raises an eyebrow. 

"I take my devotions seriously," Aramis says, and smiles... perhaps a *bit* flirtatiously — no. He stops that — 

And Treville hums and turns to Porthos. "Well, son, you heard our new recruit. Time to figure out where the *hell* the churches are." 

"I'll start working with the mapmakers immediately, sir." 

"Be sure to sober them up first." 

"That's a bit cruel, sir," Porthos says, grinning at his father and loving him — openly and obviously. 

Treville rumbles in his chest like some great beast, eyes *wild* with pleasure — "I'm a cruel man, son." 

"Oh, yeah, sir. Very dark. Very mean and um. Mean." And Porthos frowns like some old worthy in a teahouse and nods judiciously — 

And a part of Aramis — a very large part — is only waiting for Treville to *pounce* on his big, beautiful son. 

Porthos *would* be surprised — that much is clear — but his own body would teach him *much* of what he needed to know. 

Treville would make certain of that, Aramis thinks. 

Treville would — but then the man is looking at him, and seeing him, and — seeing what he sees? 

Almost certainly. 

Aramis pulls on his most *accepting* expression, his most — 

But Treville looks away. "If we wait a bit longer, they'll bring a horse for you, Aramis, but you *could* ride double with Porthos if you'd like? We've plenty of horses for you to choose from at home —" 

"Oh —" 

"— and I'd rather test your horsemanship on animals whose quirks and idiosyncrasies I know." 

The tests will begin already? He — but Treville is looking at him again, and his eyes are focused and *steely*, and Aramis does not truly need to ask that question. "Yes, sir. Riding double is well with me."

And Porthos is *beaming*... *while* shuffling on his feet a bit. 

Treville looks back and forth between them *shrewdly* — 

Lingers on Aramis for a moment and then raises his eyebrow in *question* —

He is asking if Aramis desires his son. He — 

What is the correct answer to this?

What — 

*Treville* desires his son. 

Treville *must* have *originally* bought him to prepare his son — or. Did he? 

Will he be taking Porthos to other houses? 

Perhaps bringing other older boys to his manor? 

Vetting them first to make sure his Porthos doesn't like them too *much*...? 

"Mm? What is it, sir? Aramis?" And Porthos is still again, alive to the undercurrents as always. 

Aramis wants to... protect? 

Is that the word for this feeling? He doesn't think it *could* be, considering how Aramis's *body* feels about the prospect of riding double with Porthos. But — he wants good things for Porthos. He is sure of this. 

He wants pleasure and comfort and happiness for this boy — 

For this boy who wants all of the same for him. 

"Sir...?"

And Treville hums again as — Aramis would swear this — he reads Aramis effortlessly, and he cups the back of Porthos's neck and squeezes — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

The *wild* look comes back into Treville's eyes for a moment — but then he very obviously pushes it down before turning to Porthos and saying, "Just thinking about how you picked a good one, son." 

Oh — 

"*Oh*. I knew you'd be able to *tell*, sir —" 

"That I can. I can... all but smell it." 

For some reason, that makes Porthos inhale sharply and look at Aramis with a *searching* need — 

Aramis can't *help* but think about cupping his face, pressing close, telling secrets directly into his *mouth* — 

And Porthos's eyes start to grow hot, start to grow just as wild as his father's, start — 

Treville laughs and claps them both on the shoulders. "Let's go, boys. If we make good time, we can get Aramis set up at the manor before supper."

"Oh — yes, sir!"

Aramis blinks and focuses and — "Yes, sir." 

Once in the stables, Aramis has to take a moment just to *admire* their horses. They are both great, well-fed, well-cared-for blacks, but Treville's lovely Lisle is smaller and leaner — and responds well to soft words and soft caresses — 

Porthos hands him *dates* to feed her!

And then Porthos's Léon comes to join them, and just the scents of the horses, their soft and noble affection — 

He checks their saddles, their blankets — 

Their good, strong mouths — 

He rubs their noses — 

He kisses their noses — 

He smells their breath — very good, very fresh — 

He checks their hooves — 

"I think — and don't quote me on this, sir —" 

"I never would, son." 

"I *think* that Aramis has been around a horse or two in his time," Porthos says, and there is a *laugh* in his voice, but — 

But — 

"You love horses very much, don't you, son," Treville says. 

Son — son? He is — no. "I — they are the greatest of God's creatures!" And Aramis stands still so that Lisle can lip his hair —

And... they are both smiling at him very, very warmly. *Happily*. 

Aramis does not blush... much. 

He certainly doesn't do so while he's checking just a few more things — 

They *let* him — 

They *understand* — 

And, when he is satisfied — more satisfied in this part of himself than he's been in a very long time — they mount, Aramis behind Porthos on Léon. It doesn't feel as perfect as it would to ride his own horse, but... 

But there is much that is good about wrapping his arms round beautiful Porthos's strong body, and resting against him, and — 

"All right, Aramis?" 

Aramis closes his eyes, just for a moment. "Wonderful," he says, and tightens his grip.


	5. It's helpful to give people background when they're entering new situations.

They ride in silence for a few minutes — Porthos thinks, maybe, Aramis needs it a little — but then — 

"I'm riding ahead," Daddy calls. "You boys talk amongst yourselves a little more. Get used to each other." 

That. 

Hunh. 

He reaches for his Daddy a little. He doesn't *think* Daddy is upset about Porthos not fucking anyone tonight — he had been really *clear* that Porthos didn't *have* to, *and* Porthos had gotten them a new recruit — but... 

Porthos was expecting the *three* of them to talk on this ride. 

And it's not like things should get too dangerous. Not so dangerous that Daddy and Porthos won't be able to *handle* it, anyway — 

Daddy smiles back over his shoulder. "*I* think you need to get to know a recruit you won't automatically leave in the dust in *every* way, son." 

Porthos blinks. 

Daddy laughs. "Take a better look at those trigger calluses scraping up your training leathers. Hercule's told me *beautiful* stories," he says, tips his hat, and rides ahead. 

And that — he's *reiterating* what he'd said, and he's not *lying* — 

But Porthos thinks, maybe, there was more there than what he'd said. 

Porthos frowns more. 

And Aramis squeezes him lightly. "I can be silent if you wish me to be." 

Oh — "No! I *don't*. I *really* don't," Porthos says, reaching back with one hand to pat Aramis's thigh. 

"But... there was something in your father's words you didn't like?" 

And this... "I think... well, before we came out today, we talked about how we both had things to say to the other that we couldn't say right away, but that we *would* say later. I'm wondering if whatever's he's holding back is part of that." 

"You can always tell when he is not being entirely forthcoming?" 

"Mm-hm. Even when I was a boy, and he was just working to avoid saying the really *dirty* shit. I could... feel it, kind of." 

"And... perhaps feel the gist of what was not being said?" 

Porthos considers that... "Maybe more the shape of it? It's hard to describe. I just got to know the *feel* of when Daddy didn't want me to know this or that, so I'd try to be polite and not listen." 

"... too hard?" 

Porthos grins. "Exactly. This was important information! Like what he was getting up to with Aunt Marie-Angelique, and when." 

"Who is...?" 

"Uncle Laurent's wife. The —" 

"The Captain's wife. The comtesse! Truly?" 

"Oh, yeah. Aunt Marie-Angelique loves him. Says he may not be Laurent, but he almost makes up for her not having Laurent enough. Almost." 

Porthos can feel Aramis grin. "You were paying very close attention to the things being said and not said that day." 

"*Absolutely*," Porthos says, and they laugh together. "I'm still not sure if Olivier caught it. Olivier is Uncle Laurent's and Aunt Marie-Angelique's eldest, the younger one is Thomas. Anyway, he knows *now*, and, to be honest, Uncle Laurent's a bit queer and *really* straightforward. He might've decided to just *tell* both of his sons about it when they were six and four or something." 

"Olivier — and Thomas — do not mind that your father cuckolds their own?" 

"Is it really cuckolding when everyone wants it, though? I mean, that's a *harsh* word, Aramis." 

"It is a harsh *world*, beautiful Porthos, but... I believe you have the right of it when you say that no one should decide how to define these things but the people living them," Aramis says, and squeezes him again. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yes," Aramis says into his ear. "I will be most upset with you when this cruel world smashes me to pieces because I have become so *soft*..."

Porthos snickers and squeezes Aramis's arm. "I will be *very* contrite —" 

"Will you? Will you wail over my broken body in the square? Will you put on sackcloth and ashes?" 

"Oh, all of that, all of that —" 

Aramis laughs so *happily* — 

"You *do* like to play." 

"Of course I do! What — I. I do see why that might not have been obvious," Aramis says, and *snorts* — 

Porthos snickers more — 

Léon responds to their happiness with a little high-stepping — 

And they croon and rumble together to calm him down. 

"He is so wonderful!"

"Yeah, he is —" 

"Are all Musketeer horses so spirited?" 

"Well, some of the men like to settle their mounts a sight more than this, but not many, and not much. You *want* a horse with some initiative out there, since often they'll respond faster and better than *you* do to things. You train them up so they'll take riders and know what they need to know to be a soldier's horse, and won't spook for the guns or artillery, and really not much more than that. You wouldn't want to break a soldier down to nothing, and the horses are soldiers, too." 

"Will Léon take you into battle?" 

"I certainly hope so! He was trained for it, and I've been training him specifically for *my* needs for most of the past year." 

"Oh... but." 

"Mm?" 

"How old *are* you, beautiful Porthos?" 

Porthos blushes. "I'm fourteen. It — they all say it'll be a while before I actually go on any missions. Maybe until I'm *sixteen*, even though I'm as good or better than a lot of the commissioned men —" He stops himself. He won't whine. "I'm sorry —" 

"You are eager. This is understandable. You... wish to ride with your father and Uncle... Reynard?" 

"I've wanted to all my *life* —" Porthos growls. 

"You'd like to *protect* them the way they've protected *you*." 

"Who *wouldn't*? And Uncle Reynard, he's called me his little mighty boy my whole life, and I won't *get* to protect Uncle Kitos this way —" Porthos stops himself and laughs. "This is another one of those... things." 

"Mm?" 

"I can feel it when I'm around them. The way they're not *quite* looking at me but all thinking and feeling and worrying about what will happen when I finally get *too* impatient and do something *stupid*." Porthos laughs softly. "I *won't*. But a lot of why I won't is *because* of that feeling." 

And Aramis is silent for a long moment, but Porthos can tell it's a thoughtful silence more than a put-off one. 

He can live with it. He rides, following his Daddy the way he always does — 

"I am thinking about the *feelings* you get, beautiful Porthos." 

"Mm?" 

"You have, perhaps, had feelings about me?" 

"Well... yeah. Like just a couple minutes ago I could tell you were feeling thoughtful more than anything else." 

"Just so. And, perhaps, you've had more *general* feelings about me?" 

"How do you mean?" 

Aramis laughs quietly. "Tonight, you have told me many secrets..." 

Porthos opens his mouth to protest... and realizes that he absolutely can't. 

And realizes that he's been anything *but* The Son of the Treville — 

And realizes that this could — *should* — be a problem. Except... it doesn't feel like one. "I trust you." 

"Why so, beautiful Porthos...?" And the question is soft, gentle — and just a little wanting. 

Like maybe Aramis wants a reason to trust himself. 

"I... I would like to know." 

Porthos squeezes Aramis's forearm with one hand. "I know, Aramis, and I wish I could give you a solid answer — a *meaty* one you could sink your teeth into." 

"You have only... feelings?" 

"They're solid for me," Porthos says. "They... as solid as the love in Hercule's eyes when he was saying goodbye to you." 

"I — oh." 

"They don't — they don't ever lead me *astray*." 

"Not... ever?" 

"No, Aramis. Not ever," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "I think, maybe, the gifts the witches gave Maman... well. And then there's the fact that Daddy's power is connected to me somehow..." He shakes his head. "I never really thought about it this deeply before, but —" 

"Perhaps, you, too, are a witch of some sort?" 

"It happens," Porthos says. "Does it bother you?" 

Aramis shudders against him. 

"Aramis —" 

"I am exhilarated, beautiful Porthos, with the wonder of Creation, that God could give the world such strange powers and *gifts*!" And Aramis shudders again, *squeezes* Porthos again — "Such beautiful gifts..." 

How did they get from here to the *Christian* God? But — no, Porthos isn't going to make Aramis argue with him tonight. Not when he can, well... "Would it. Would it make you uncomfortable if I said I thought you were beautiful, too?" 

Aramis inhales a little sharply. 

"Not just your looks. I mean, everyone *in* that place had pretty *looks*. But you... um. You have a lot more." 

"Beautiful Porthos finds *many* ways to tell me this thing." 

He does? He — "I — and it's all right?" 

"You are not pressuring me to make love with you —" 

"I would *never* —" 

"You are not demanding I pay you *back* —" 

"No —" 

"Are you hungry for me, beautiful Porthos?" 

"I. Uh... I don't..." 

Aramis laughs, then. "There *is* a wrong answer to this question —" 

"I *know* —" 

"But only because I am hungry for you." 

"Oh — Aramis — I don't want you to feel *obligated*, or — or *anything* like that." 

"And I do not. I am thrilled to my core. I am — I am drunk on this new world you are showing me, these new possibilities, this. This new family." 

"*Yes* — it's *yours* —" And Porthos *grunts*, because Aramis kisses the space behind his ear.

"It's only..." 

"What... what? What do you need?" 

Aramis pants against his ear — 

It feels like it's on *fire* — "Tell me, Aramis, I'll *get* it for you —" 

"Oh — I *believe* you," Aramis says, and laughs helplessly. "This is a very strange feeling!" 

"It *won't* be for *long* —" 

Aramis moans and squeezes him tight. "It is no physical thing, no — no *material* thing, beautiful Porthos —" 

"Then —" 

"I... I am not always... serene." 

Well. He knows that. "Yeah? I know —" 

"I am not always serene about *anything*," Aramis says, laughing ruefully and kissing Porthos twice — 

Porthos *forces* himself not to tug the reins when he stiffens, when he — when he *stiffens* — "You feel so good..." 

"Just this, beautiful Porthos?" And Aramis kisses him again — 

"Your mouth — your lips..." Porthos moans. "We'll be on busier streets soon. I can't let you —" 

"This I know. And so, one more time," Aramis says, and kisses him *lingeringly*, with — with a little *suck* — 

Porthos moans *more* — "Fuck, Aramis — you — I want to kiss your mouth for *hours* —" 

Aramis pulls back with a little *lick* — 

Like — like a *kitten* — 

"This can be arranged, beautiful Porthos. I will give *you* what you want and be very happy about the matter — I love the taste of you!" 

"Oh, fuck —"

"But... there may come a day when I *cannot* give you sex —" 

"Of course —" 

"When I cannot... when I am not *serene*..." 

And there's something... 

Porthos can feel something *dark*. 

Something. Hm. "Aramis... should I or should I *not* ask about what I can... feel?" 

And Aramis's laugh is brittle. *Wrong* — 

"I'll — I'll — I don't have to *hurt* you —" 

"And... if I like to be hurt?" 

Porthos blinks. 

"Sometimes. Only sometimes. And — it is not the whole of... it..." 

Porthos *regroups* — 

Another brittle laugh. "I apologize, beautiful Porthos. You do not have to — you must not feel —" 

"Sometimes you like to be... um. Held a little harder, maybe?" 

Aramis inhales *raggedly*. "I... I..." 

"Maybe... sometimes it feels better to make love in... different ways? Less... soft ways? Or *differently* soft ways?" 

"*Porthos*." 

"*Maybe*. Maybe it would be better for you if. If I were the one... pushing. Sometimes. Or all the time?"

"Porthos, *how* do you —" 

"I don't — I'm *sheltered*, Aramis, but there were other people *in* that shelter —" 

"You —" 

"Other people who — who had wounds inside, and — and sometimes Daddy and my Uncles would try to explain when I overheard them, and Maman would also try to explain what they were up to —" 

"But. Other times. You could... feel?" 

"*Yes*. Yeah. But — is that what you mean? It is, isn't it?" 

"Porthos..." And Aramis's voice is low, hungry, *wondering*... 

"I'll give you *anything* —" 

"Do you — do you truly — no. You must not do anything you don't *desire*. Not with *anyone*, but especially not with *me*." 

And Porthos feels himself getting *harder* — 

Wanting *more* — 

And realizes that part of what he's feeling is what Aramis is feeling for him. And that — 

That's so bloody *good* — 

Porthos *growls* — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"You'll teach me how to make you feel right. How to make you feel just — just *perfect*, Aramis —" 

"No —" 

"You *will*, 'cause I *want* it — I want you to." Porthos growls again. "I want to make you *feel* how much I want it." 

"Oh — oh, *God*. *Porthos*. I will show you what I need. And I will trust you. To give..." And Aramis swallows with a hard click — 

"I'll try, I *promise* — and Hercule, he gives you this. Right?" 

"He is... very gentle," Aramis says — 

"Too gentle?" 

Aramis laughs ruefully. "I am making myself sound like some — some —" 

"Shh, don't. There's nothing wrong with it —" 

"You are a *boy* — but. But. Somehow, you are also not. I am forced to believe that there is something to this idea that good parenting makes a difference —" 

Porthos laughs hard. "*Fuck*, I want to kiss you hard, lick you all over —" 

"Ah..."

"No?" 

"Perhaps... bites?"

Porthos growls more. "Hard?" 

"Not... necessarily..." 

"But do you *want* it?" 

"I want to *please* you!" 

"Then you'll keep kissing me — no, not now — and *help* me figure out what else I want, because I'm bloody new at this," Porthos says, and they snicker like children — 

Like *naughty*, breathless children — 

And, for a long moment, Porthos can *only* picture himself biting and biting and *biting* Aramis's long throat. It —

"Porthos..." 

Porthos grunts. "Sorry, Aramis. I'm... just thinking about biting you, actually," he says, and laughs more — 

"Where?" 

Shit — "Your throat. Just. All over your throat —" 

"I like that very much..." 

"You do?" 

"It makes me *loud*, beautiful Porthos..." 

"Oh. Fuck. I want you to be loud. I want you to be — really loud." 

"You want to announce to the world what you're doing with me?" 

"I want the whole world to know that I deserve you," Porthos says, and follows his Daddy onto the *country* roads, because they're going to the *manor* — 

Fuck — 

He has never been *happier* that the main de Treville lands are so poor and meagre and close to the city — and not at all worth his father's honour. 

And — Aramis is quiet behind him again. 

Thoughtful? No, *grateful* — 

"Aramis...." 

Aramis squeezes him tight. 

Porthos grunts. "You're — you're *valuable* —" 

"My beautiful Porthos is — is *insistent* about changing his Aramis's entire way of thinking in one *night* —" 

"My Aramis?" 

"Whom else should I belong to?" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Aramis's laugh is low and — and *dirty* — 

"Don't — don't joke about —" 

"Who is joking, beautiful Porthos? You have told me in *many* different ways that if I put myself in your hands, you will do exactly what *should* be done with me, what *must* be done with me, what I *want* done with me — and do it with joy and pleasure in *your* heart! How can I do anything else?"

Porthos *moans* — loudly enough that he almost misses the *feel* of Daddy's... 

He doesn't know what it was. 

A grunt? 

A growl? 

It was too soft to be heard, but there was too much *feeling* behind it for it not to be *felt*, and — 

And for all that he and Aramis are speaking quietly, Daddy is Daddy, and a *dog*. 

Daddy can hear every word. 

Daddy *has* heard every word. 

And is maybe *reacting* to — but why wouldn't he? 

He's known since he was a *small* boy that Daddy *likes* boys — and young men — like Aramis. That he enjoys *fucking* 'mouthy little pricks' who are still more than a little submissive, that he — 

Is he arousing Daddy with this? 

With — with *Aramis*? 

A part of him would do *anything* *to* arouse Daddy, to get him closer to maybe, possibly — but. But most of him can't. Most of him — 

Not Aramis. Not like that — 

It would be different if Aramis *wanted* —

"Porthos...?" 

Oh — and Aramis is *unsure* now — "No, I —" 

"I do not have to be — so... dramatic —" 

"Don't change *anything* —" 

"*I* could feel you *change*, Porthos —" 

"Because I — because I got worried." 

"About me —" 

"*No*. Or — not like that," Porthos says, and feels Aramis's doubt, confusion — he has to be honest. "I was worried about — Daddy." 

And, again, he can feel *something* — 

A *spike* of feeling from Daddy — 

They have to *talk* — 

"You were... you think he would dislike me belonging to you?" 

Fuck — 

*Fuck* — 

No. He has to be *honest*. "I... started thinking... I started thinking about how Daddy likes young men like you," Porthos says, and winces — but they can pretend Daddy *can't* hear this, right? 

Can't they? 

"I started... worrying. But he *won't* hurt you. He never would." 

More confusion, more — 

"Then why were you worried?" 

He can't be this honest. He can't — "I... if I..." 

"Porthos, you are... you are *hurting*, what *is* it?" 

Porthos laughs *painfully* — 

Feels his *Daddy* hurt *with* him — 

"I had this awful thought. This... *awful* thought," Porthos says, and cups Aramis's forearm again — no. He can't. He lets go. 

"Porthos? We all have dark thoughts —" 

"Not. Not this dark, I think. I um. I'm just going to say it. And hope... anyway." 

Aramis squeezes him hard. "Beautiful Porthos. You accept my *deviance*. How can I not accept you?" 

"Your — there's nothing wrong with *you* —" 

"*Tell* me!" 

Porthos hisses between his teeth. "You — you can't build anything on lies. Not anything good." 

"This is so." 

"For... a moment. I thought about using you." 

"I like to be used, from time to time..." 

"Not — not in a good way, Aramis. I thought about using you to... attract Daddy. To me." 

And Aramis is silent — 

Of course he's *silent*, he has to be, what do you *say* to — 

"I... had wondered," Aramis says.

"Wh-what? What did you —" 

"I had wondered if you realized that you were attracted to your father..." 

Porthos *moans* —

And feels his Daddy — 

Feels everything in his Daddy *roil* — 

Oh, *fuck* — 

"Aramis —" 

But Aramis kisses the space behind his ear. "Your father, he is a very attractive man, yes?" 

Porthos *grunts*. "*Aramis* —" 

"I think, perhaps, he has given you everything you have ever needed, and thus built in you a need for one *more* thing." 

"Yes — fuck — or. I don't *know*. Other people aren't *like* this —" 

"Perhaps not. Other people, they are also not so loving and passionate and accepting as you, and this means, to me, that they are not so close to *God*." 

"Um. What?" 

"You will *not* use me in this way, will you?" 

"*No*! That would be — that would be *obscene*." 

Aramis makes a soft, hungry noise — 

Squeezes him *tighter*. 

"Be easy, beautiful Porthos. Be *easy*." 

He *can't* do that while his Daddy is so — 

But Daddy — settles himself. 

Porthos can *feel* him doing it, feel that it wasn't completely *natural* — 

And then he can — 

Feel — 

(Son...) 

Porthos *grunts* — 

"Porthos?" 

"One — one moment. I — there's something..." 

"There is something you can... feel?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "Yeah. I. Yeah." 

"As you say," Aramis says, and kisses him again, and settles. 

Porthos swallows and breathes and — Daddy...? 

Daddy's sigh is... all through him. 

All *through* him. 

Porthos only *barely* manages not to *groan* — 

Just — Daddy, have you always been able to *do* this?" 

(Yes. I — I couldn't with your mother until we'd shared blood, but I could feel the difference with you... she *gave* you to me...) And Daddy growls. (I wanted to give you your *privacy*, as much as I could.) 

I — 

(As much as I could *bring* myself to.) 

Porthos inhales sharply. That's... something else. 

(Yes, it is,) Daddy says, and it's wry. (But... is this... is this what you wanted to talk to me about?) 

Porthos flushes. He doesn't — he doesn't have *words* — 

(Oh, son... oh, son, it's what I want, as well. I want to make love to you for *hours* at a time. I want to fuck you *blind*. Don't — please don't hurt yourself with this. If there's *fault* to this, then it's *mine*. I shouldn't — I shouldn't *want* this —) 

Porthos flushes all *over*. His heart is slamming in his chest and he — 

(Son, I'm so — we don't *ever* have to —) 

Daddy, *no*, I've wanted you since — since I've wanted *anyone* — 

(*Fuck*. I could *smell* it, and I was telling myself — so many things. So many things. When I finally couldn't deny it anymore, when I caught myself moving to kiss your mouth, to cup your beautiful cock —) 

Porthos's cock *flexes* — 

Daddy's growl is the *world* — 

Daddy, please — 

(It was Laurent who suggested I try to find someone else for you, that I try to... *help* myself see you sexually involved with other people.) And Daddy's laugh is the world, too. (I had no idea it would work so well. For both of us, mm?) 

Porthos feels his skin prickling with sweat. The spot Aramis has been kissing...

(I can tell that it feels *branded*, son.) 

*Yes* — 

(As well it should. He's perfect...)

And Porthos feels the *space* left, the question *asked* — and the admission made. You *do* want him?

(Very much so. You should always, always trust your instincts, son,) Daddy says, and laughs more. (But — he's given himself to *you*, and I know I don't have to tell you how very much that means.) 

No, I... Daddy, I... 

(Son?) 

(I... want both of you.) 

Daddy pauses, but sighs again, and this time it feels like being *held*. 

Like being wrapped tight and sniffed and nuzzled and licked and kissed — 

(I always want to hold you that way.) 

I always want you to! 

(Son. When we get home, I'm going to kiss you exactly... exactly the way I've been craving —) 

*Please*!

(And then I'm going to give you time with your Aramis —) 

But — 

(We've had all your life to get to know one another. He... has not. He's bold as anyone could wish, but I find *I* wish... to be a little gentle.) 

He doesn't *like* gentle — 

(In my experience, even many people who wish to be absolutely *covered* in bruises by a lover still wish that lover to move a little slowly in *other* ways.) 

And that... makes sense. 

(Oh, son. I'm so proud of you. I'm so... I'm *starved* for you, and I'm proud of you, and I'm so hard I can barely *think*.) 

Porthos *fights* not to squirm — 

(That's right. Be good to Léon. We're almost there.) 

Yes, Daddy!

(Do you have any questions before I send you to be good to your boy?) 

Is this. Were you going to tell me this tonight?

(We would've had to be honest with each other, son. Or hurt each other irrevocably. I couldn't have done that to you... even if it meant that I had to hurt you another way.) 

Please never lie to me! 

(*Never*. Now go.) 

Yes, Daddy! And Porthos focuses — 

It *takes* a moment — 

And he's not exactly surprised to discover that Aramis is — loosely — holding the reins right along with him. 

He's — 

He's so *good* — 

"I'm back," Porthos says, a little ruefully — 

Aramis releases the reins immediately and wraps his arms round Porthos again. "Can you tell me where you went?" 

"I... with Daddy." 

"To... a different spiritual sphere?" 

"Um... no?" Porthos laughs. "You have so much to teach me!" 

"I was going to say just the same thing! *Where* —" 

"He was talking to me — in my head. I... apparently he's been able to do that all along, but he just wasn't because he wanted to give me my privacy." 

"I grow more enamored with your father by the *moment*." 

"He feels the same about you." 

"I — yes? You told him about our conversation?" 

More honesty — "He um. He can *hear* us, Aramis." 

"What?" 

"He's... his senses are... better. Than other men's. His reflexes, some other things. It's a long story —" 

"I want to hear it!" 

"All right —" 

"But not now. He's been *listening*?" 

"I —" 

"No, tell me *now*!" 

"Well, all right, it starts with Maman — before she was ever pregnant with me, she was *friends* with Daddy, and with his brothers —" 

"Oh, yes? How did they meet?" 

"She worked in a tea shop they frequented. Daddy says he got addicted to her filthy sense of humor right away, and Maman says Daddy was always gentle and kind — and also really filthy —" 

"I love your family!"

"I —" 

"Keep going!" 

Porthos grins. "Right, so, Maman was an ex-slave, and didn't have a patron, and Daddy was a boy who wasn't smart enough to know she *needed* a patron — that's how he tells it — and so she got snatched up by the Marquis de Belgard one day, who decided he wanted her as a lover. Daddy's name wasn't as good as his, but he had *friends* with better names —" 

"The comte?" 

"Yeah, him —" 

"Go on!" 

"All *right*," Porthos says, and grins more, shocked to be doing so for *this* story. "*Anyway*. Maman turned them down when they offered to, you know, *extricate* her, because Belgard wasn't so bad. And he *stayed* not-so-bad, even when Maman fell pregnant with me, but one of Maman's witch-friends — they were kind of like *her* adoptive parents — had a prophecy —" 

"*Oh*." 

"Should I —" 

"No!" 

"Right. Ife had a prophecy that Maman — and me — would be in serious danger soon if they didn't have a protector who was a witch *and* someone who could handle themselves in, you know, a *temporal* scrap. And Maman pointed out that they knew exactly one person like that, and that was Daddy —" 

"He was already a witch?!"

"Not a powerful one, but, see, they could *do* something about that. And they did. A *lot* of somethings. And um. Now he's... enhanced." 

Aramis sighs with satisfaction. "Your family is touched by God!" 

"About that —" 

"Perhaps by many gods!" 

"See, that's probably closer —" 

"There's something you didn't tell me!" 

Oh...

(Tell him, son,) Daddy says, and laughs in him again. 

"Well..." 

"Please tell me! Please never be afraid that I will judge you or your — did the Marquis try to hurt your mother? Did your father —" 

"Belgard tried to have us killed — hired an assassin and everything —" 

"*No* —" 

"But Daddy felt the wrong going on, caught wind of the plot and all, and wound up murdering the assassin right in front of that arse!"

"Oh, I would've loved to see this!" 

"*Yes*. Sometimes I *dream* of it —" 

"But tell me!" 

"Well, um. He's a dog." 

Aramis is silent.

"Daddy is, that is." 

Aramis continues to be silent.

For — 

For quite some time. 

"Aramis —" 

"Pardon?" 

"I... see... when they *changed* Daddy —" 

And then Porthos has to stop, because Daddy's Lisle is whinnying annoyedly and stepping a bit too lively — 

Daddy's laughing his arse off. 

Daddy's laughing hard enough that they can *all* hear him — 

Aramis hums. "And yet. And *yet*, I sense *strongly* that neither of you will tell me that you, beautiful Porthos, were exaggerating about the dog comment." 

"Well... no." 

Aramis squeezes him tight again — 

Porthos watches Daddy regain full control of Lisle — 

He can *feel* that Daddy is *still* laughing — just more *quietly* — 

And Aramis licks him again. More *slowly*. 

"*Unh* —" 

"Is this why licking is sexual to you, beautiful Porthos?" 

"Uh... I —" 

"One so young... it usually takes time for this to become a desire. But if your greatest love licks you often..." 

"He does — he *really* does — and when he turns *into* a dog —" 

"I." 

"— I just want to get on my hands and knees and let him *mount* me —" 

"You —" 

And Daddy's having trouble with Lisle again. 

That — "Right, I said something weird, didn't I. I mean, even for *this* conversation." 

"No!" 

"Aramis." 

"He... can... but what *kind* of dog?"

"A really *huge* one. A great hunting hound, like. Dark, sleek fur; big, gleaming eyes; massive jaws —" 

"Beautiful Porthos." 

"Mm?" 

But Aramis doesn't say anything. 

Porthos can feel him *staring* at the back of his *head* — 

But he doesn't say anything. 

"Aramis?" 

"I am at a complete loss for words." 

"Oh. That's fair." 

"I do not believe this has ever happened to me." 

"What, never?" 

"Never," Aramis says, and *feels* peevish. 

"I'm... sorry? I'm sorry." 

"Do not be *sorry*. Simply give me time to catch up with you." 

"Absolutely! But... what do you need to catch up with?" 

"I am not *nearly* as perverse as you are and this *angers* me." 

Daddy *guffaws* — in his head. He keeps control of Lisle this time. 

"I'm um. I'm *very* sorry —" 

"I have never wanted to fuck a dog!" 

"Well... most people don't?" 

"I am not most people!" 

"You're *definitely* not —" 

"I *am* going to fuck a dog." 

Daddy turns Lisle around. 

"Oh..." 

Porthos *coughs* and *tries* not to snicker. 

"Not to eavesdrop horribly," Daddy says, when he joins them. "But..." 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

Aramis makes a small, eeping sound. 

Daddy *gleams* at them — 

"Oh! Your eyes!" 

Daddy laughs low and *dirty*. "As I was saying. Should *either* of you find yourself wishing to fuck a dog — or, to be fair, because the dog in me is rather disagreeable at times —" 

"OhmyGod." 

"— to be fucked *by* a dog, you should be sure to let me know at your earliest convenience." 

"I have begun sweating in unfortunate places," Aramis says. 

Porthos licks his lips *helplessly* — 

"Not," Daddy says, "to my nose, son. We're just beyond this ridge. I'll ride ahead and... hmm. Clear a path through the curious." And Daddy smiles at both of them, tips his hat, and rides on. 

"*Porthos*. I have begun to almost regret that your father did *not* buy me as your pleasure-slave!" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

And then remembers — 

"Wait, there's one more thing —" 

"What could it *be*? Have you a cock that is ten inches long despite your tender years? I forgive you! I promise! Punish me with it nightly!" 

Porthos *coughs* — 

Aramis snickers like a *boy* — 

"It um..." 

"*What*?" 

"Well, it's about *Daddy's* cock..." 

Daddy laughs *hard* again — 

"Oh my *God*. Tell me! Let me *prepare* myself! Wait, do you have a good supply of oil in your house?" 

"Oh, yeah, Daddy always buys it special, but —" 

"Oh my God. No, don't stop!" 

"He has a dog cock." 

"Well, yes, presumably —" 

"No, I mean, all the time." 

"What." 

"It's just, you know. Hunh." 

"*What*?" 

"It's just that I have no *idea* why it's like that all the time. I mean, it's not the *same* dog cock as when he *is* a dog —" 

"And you have, of course, been paying close attention —" 

"Oh, yeah, I mean, his fur's all different, and the sheath — I mean, it's *thicker* when he's human. Longer, too. Well, I don't know what it's like when it's hard," Porthos says, and sighs. "I really wish I *did*." 

"I." And Aramis laughs a little hysterically. 

And *Porthos* remembers what his Daddy had said about being gentle. "I um... are you all right? We can — *oof* —" 

Aramis squeezes him even *harder* — 

Squeezes the *breath* out of him — "Aramis —" 

"They say those who are touched by gods are unknowable by mortal men." 

"I —" 

"*I* say those are who are touched by gods are too beautiful to be *borne* by — most," Aramis says, and eases his grip slightly. 

Just enough for Porthos to breathe. He does. "When I saw you, it was like there was a light on just you. It was like the sun was shining on you, I think. Even though all the curtains were drawn." 

Aramis takes a *quick* breath — "My beautiful Porthos —" 

"I like that —" 

Aramis purrs. "Good. I want to taste you." 

"I like that even better —" 

"I want you to fill my mouth —" 

"Just to be clear, my cock is pretty average, I'd say, for someone my size —" 

(No it isn't, son.) 

It's just a little smaller than yours!

(Exactly.) 

Porthos opens his mouth — and closes it. 

"Yes, Porthos? You have something else to tell me? Perhaps that the horses of the de Treville stables sprout wings on moonlit nights?" 

"Only in Springtime, but —" 

Aramis *coughs* — 

Porthos *grins*. "No, Daddy was just telling me that I apparently *do* have a big cock. I mean, all right, it did seem a little more sizable than some of the commissioned men's —" 

Aramis laughs hysterically again — 

"You um. You can teach me how to use it properly?" 

Aramis *chokes* — 

"Or —" 

"My beautiful Porthos. I promise you that I will *devote* myself to this very thing."


	6. Teaching works so much better when the students are eager to learn.

The manor is beautiful at sunset — and would obviously be beautiful at all other times of day — but Aramis can see very clearly that the grounds are more stony and less rich, less *generous* than they could be. 

Treville is *not* an old name, and these grounds were, perhaps, taken as a small punishment from someone out of favor. 

And then it occurs to Aramis that there may come a day that he can simply *ask* that question of the man himself — 

Or of *anyone* who lives in this manor — 

"All right, Aramis?" 

And, with Porthos in his life, he may never have another secret again. 

Certainly, he will never have another secretly-problematic *mood*. Aramis turns away from the open stable doors — Porthos has assured him that the currently-absent stableboys are the best money can buy, and, by the look of the many beautiful and spirited horses, this is so! — and looks up into Porthos's beautiful face. 

Porthos is giving him a worried look. 

*Aramis* is already smiling. "I was overwhelmed, again." 

"What can I do?" 

"My beautiful Porthos wishes his Aramis to be comfortable at all times?" 

"Yeah. He does," Porthos says, and there is... heat. In that voice. *Desire*. 

Aramis hums. "I think, perhaps, my beautiful Porthos could come to enjoy certain kinds of *discomfort* in his Aramis." 

"What? No —" 

Aramis moves close — 

Wraps his arms round Porthos's neck — 

"Oh. Fuck —" 

"No...?" 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, and for a moment he doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. 

Aramis swivels his hips just *so* —

And Porthos *grips* them and *growls*. 

Aramis grins. "My Porthos would have me be still...?" 

"No. Yes. Fuck — let me kiss your perfect *mouth*." 

Perfect — Aramis purses his lips — 

Porthos squeezes his hips *tight* and *growls* again — 

"Oh, Porthos. I will be perfect for you *always* if you keep —" 

Doing *that*, Aramis was going to say, but he's being kissed, and it's soft, and cautious, and Porthos is moaning, moaning — 

Is it his first kiss? 

Has he never...? 

Oh, Porthos... 

Aramis turns his head slightly and nips Porthos's plush lower lip — 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Aramis *smiles* and nips again — 

Presses harder — 

Nips *again* — 

Considers... and then lets himself *feel* exactly as hungry as he — 

And then he is against the *wall*, and Porthos's hands are in his *hair*, and Porthos's tongue is in his *mouth* — 

Aramis *flexes* in his breeches, groans, *bucks* — 

Porthos *thrusts* against him — 

Pulls out of the kiss — 

*Stares* at him for a *moment* — 

"Porthos —" 

And the next kiss is carefully *hard*, carefully *brutal*, and Aramis's mind is blank with *lust*. He gives himself to the kiss utterly, to the *stab* of Porthos's tongue, to the feel of his hair being *yanked* — 

Porthos is thrusting against him so *hard* — 

Aramis is *shaking* — 

Moaning and trying to *find* his control — but. 

Porthos wants him loud. 

Porthos wants the world to know he has *earned* Aramis, and that — 

Aramis feels himself flushing hard and — lets himself, moaning loud, louder, exactly how he *feels* for the *big* cock he can feel driving against him, for the *promise* of Porthos — 

Porthos growls *again* — 

Bites his lip *hard* — 

"*Yes*!" 

"*Aramis* —" 

"Yes? Yes, anything, what you wish —" 

And Porthos growls into his mouth, holds Aramis's hips still with *phenomenal* strength — he is a *boy*! 

*But*. 

That is, perhaps, an irrelevancy right now. 

He is a male who is taller, broader, heavier. 

He is *bigger*. 

And he is... so hungry. 

Aramis moans *again*, moans into the *air* when Porthos *drags* the kiss off his mouth, when he *bites* the corner of Aramis's still-beardless jaw — 

And again — 

And his *throat* — 

"*Please*!" 

And *this* thrust drives Aramis onto his toes — 

Porthos is almost *snarling* — 

Biting — 

Biting all *over* his throat — 

"Yes! Yes, *please* — *FUCK* —" 

And Porthos bites down hard, *hard*, growling so *low* — 

He's thrusting *raggedly* against Aramis — 

Oh, Porthos — 

Aramis *cups* the back of his head — "Do it, spend, give me your *pleasure* —" 

Porthos bites down *harder* — 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

And Porthos thrusts *brutally* hard, slamming Aramis against the wall, and — growling. Groaning. Shuddering as he *loses* himself — 

Panting and licking a *hot* stripe to Aramis's *ear* — 

*Biting* Aramis's ear — 

"*Shit* —" 

"I — I know that was too *quick*," Porthos says, blowing and kissing him, *sucking* Aramis's ear — "I want you, I need you, I need to touch you all *over*, I need to — fuck, let me get you *inside*." 

"I have *no* objections, but you must — that was *perfect* —" 

"It was *not*; you didn't spend —" 

"But you *will* make me spend —" 

"Oh, fuck, I will, I will, I want to have you right *here*." 

Aramis laughs. "I have no objections to that, *either*," he says, pushing Porthos back so that they can *see* each other and grinning. "Beautiful Porthos, you are..." He shakes his head and licks his lips. "Kiss me again, one more time, then take me to your *bed*." 

Porthos pants and darts for his *throat* again — 

"*Oh* —" 

*Sucks* his throat, right over his Adam's apple — 

Aramis gurgles and laughs — "*Porthos* —" 

And then Porthos opens his mouth *wide* against Aramis's throat, seems to *consider* for a long moment — 

"Porthos?" 

And *then* he bites down, *slow* and hard, until he's *choking* Aramis with a bite, and that — 

Oh, *that* — 

Aramis blinks and blinks and *clutches* at Porthos — 

He's never felt — 

He's never — 

He can hear his own breath *whistling* — 

He shudders and *bucks* again, and he doesn't know what Porthos wants, and he doesn't know if *Porthos* knows what he wants — 

And then one of Porthos's big, strong hands is *cupping* him through his *trousers* — 

*Squeezing* him *cautiously* —

Aramis groans and feels the *vibration* of it where he's being *bitten* — 

Held like — like an *animal* would hold... but had he learned this from his father? Had he somehow *seen*? 

He bucks *twice*, whimpers and *aches*, and he will not last. 

He will not *last*, and he does not want to. 

He *pushes* into Porthos's fist, offers, *gives* himself — 

Porthos *growls* — 

Aramis's *mouth* falls open for the feel of his entire throat *thrumming* — 

It seems as though he can feel the growl in his *spine* — 

And then Porthos is *massaging* Aramis's cock through his trousers, awkward and slow at first, but so firm, so *demanding* — 

He gets less awkward by the moment — 

By the strangled *breath* — 

So sweet — 

So hot! 

Aramis is flushed all over, clawing at the wall behind him, straining to stay *still* for Porthos's wonderful *hand*, perfect *hand* — 

And then he loosens the bite — 

""No*!" 

He snarls and bites *hard*, drools on Aramis, breaks the *skin*, and Aramis can't — 

He bucks and bucks and *bucks*, working his hips helplessly and whimpering, wanting — 

Please, just — 

*Please* — 

The blood and spit are running down his throat — 

His cock is *wet* with slick — 

He can smell them *both* over the scents of sweet hay and horses, and this — 

This is a perfection he's never dreamed of, something he'd never thought to *pray* for, and right now he can only feel foolish and beatific at once. 

Porthos. 

Aramis smiles as the limited air gets to him, as the black blossoms in his vision, as his knees buckle and Porthos holds him up effortlessly with his other hand and — 

Squeezes — 

So hard — 

So — 

And even harder, hotter, better, and now it's rhythmic, sweet, musical, *sweet*, and Aramis can't see, can't think, can't — 

He *bucks* — 

He screams and nothing comes out but a desperate *croak* — 

He spends shuddering and *aching*, aching for just this, aching for more of just *this*, except that if Porthos doesn't put him on his knees *very* soon — 

Oh, he spends *more* — 

He loses — 

He *gives* — 

And Porthos pulls *back* — 

Aramis gasps and spends more — 

Gasps and *shouts* — 

"You're so *beautiful*," Porthos says, panting and licking his lips —

Aramis slumps against the *wall* — 

"Oh... oh, *Aramis*..." 

He would like — 

He would like to be able to *talk* — 

To think — 

He would like to be able to — but perhaps he could crawl on his knees to Porthos's bed? 

Or a stall? 

He *has* oil in his *trousers* — 

Aramis looks a hopeful question to his Porthos — 

"Mm? What do you need? What can I give — oh. There's blood... I. May I lick it?" 

"Are you *asking*?" 

Porthos blinks. "Should I not? Uh. Again? Or should I apologize —" 

"Do *not* apologize!" 

"All right!" 

"But..." And Aramis pauses — 

And *reminds* himself that he is at *least* a year older than the *very* recent virgin currently at least mostly responsible for the fact that Aramis is mostly *upright* — 

All right. 

All right. He breathes — 

He breathes once more — 

"Beautiful Porthos. You want me to teach you, yes?" 

"Oh, fuck, *yes*!" 

"If this is to happen *most* effectively, *you must stop making me lose my mind with desperate pleasure*." 

"... um." 

"Yes, you see? That is not going to happen unless you want to make your Aramis very sad." 

"*No*!" 

"Exactly, so —" 

"I want you to spend yourself *mindless* for me!" 

"This is good! We are in agreement! But the teaching will suffer. Do you see?"

"But... I want to be *good* for you," Porthos says, and he is sincere, and open, and hungry — 

Hungry for Aramis's pleasure. Aramis smiles softly. "You can be nothing less," he says. "You want to learn. You desire me, and desire *my* pleasure —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"You do *not* need my pleasure to look like some strange, specific fantasy that has nothing to *do* with what I desire —" 

"I — I would never —" 

"I *know* this thing. I? Know your *father* knows this thing. Already you have taught *me* a new path to pleasure — how did you learn this thing...? You bit my throat so hard you cut off my *air*!" 

"I —" 

"No, do not tell me, yet! Know this: You have *every* tool to become the *best* of lovers, and already I dream of never leaving your *side*!" 

"Oh — *fuck*, Aramis, that's exactly what I want!" 

Aramis gasps a little — and grins. "Perhaps... perhaps we will talk more about this thing later, as well. For *now*, there is this — we will *both* learn, and learn *each other*, a little at a time, as we gasp at each other and smell the scents of each other's musk and sweat and spend. Yes?" 

Porthos flares his nostrils — like his father. And nods. 

"Then — " 

"Inside. Please. Because if I smell you any *more*, I'm going to lose my mind for you again." 

And that... "Curiously enough, when you were wondering what question I was asking you with my eyes?" 

"Yeah?" 

"I was asking if you would please let me drop to my *knees* — or my *hands* and knees —" 

"*Fuck*, Aramis —" 

"So you could fuck me *most* brutally." And Aramis pauses, to see... 

Porthos pants — 

Growls — 

Looks Aramis *over* — "I — I *know* that at least part of you wants me to *push* you down right now —" 

"Yes!" 

"I know that you *would* let me — *want* me — to have you here, in the stables —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"I can *feel* that —" 

"*Good*!" 

And Porthos looks down into Aramis's eyes. "I want more than that. More for you, and more for *me*." 

Aramis *purrs*. "My Porthos should have what he wishes," he says, and gestures to the open doors of the stables. 

Porthos takes his *hand* — and leans in to lick the blood away from his throat, slowly and thoroughly and *hungrily*. 

He sucks -- 

He *slurps* -- 

He growls as he stands straight again. "Everything about you is *delicious*," he says, and tugs Aramis lightly out the doors and toward the manor, proper. 

"You make me wish to be *covered* in wounds, beautiful Porthos," Aramis says, and laughs — 

"I'd lick 'em all clean, suck them, bite them — all right, fuck, change the subject —" 

"Shall I teach you more?" 

"*Always*." 

Aramis *grins* and squeezes Porthos's hand. "It is not — necessarily — 'more' for me to have a sweet, soft bed. Even a sweet, soft bed that is large and faintly musky with all of your wonderful scents."

"Oh — fuck. But. What? What do you mean? You don't *want* to make love in a bed? Do you like stables? Or... fucking outdoors in general? We can —" 

Aramis laughs softly and swivels his hips again — 

"Fuck, don't *do* that if you want me to have a *mind* —" 

"I like *you*, beautiful Porthos," Aramis says, and dances round in front of Porthos, keeping their hands linked. "I like *you*, and your *passion*, and your passion for *me*, and how it drives you to do things such as slam me against stable walls and *use* me for your pleasure —" 

"I —" 

"And then, even after I *ask* you to kiss me and take me to your bed? You are driven to *make* me spend against that selfsame wall — ah, it is still light enough that I see you blush! But you are my Porthos, and you only need to be told things *once*, yes?" 

"Yes — I — " 

"And I told *you* that I enjoyed being pushed. So. This is what you were thinking, yes? How to pleasure me even beyond the pleasures I asked for?" 

"Yes, and you're about to tell me that that was right, but you just *praised* me for being the kind of person who wouldn't *do* that —" 

Aramis licks his teeth. "Another lesson, my Porthos: This — *none* of this is exact." 

Porthos frowns *most* direfully. 

Aramis does *not* laugh. "One more: If I do not *stop* you, you are doing something right. Because it's you, it is probably *very* right." 

"I... want better than that." 

Aramis cocks his head to the side as Porthos tugs them into the manor — "For you? Or for me?" And then he does his *very* best to *exude*: There is a right answer to this question. 

Porthos opens his mouth — 

Closes it and *blinks* — 

And focuses *shrewdly* on Aramis. "*You're* satisfied with there being no set answers for this sort of thing. With there being... flexibility." 

*Yes* — "I am *overjoyed* with this, beautiful Porthos —" 

"Then that's what we'll have —" 

"And, for you, perhaps there will be more *firm* answers." 

"I —" 

"We shall see, mm?" 

Porthos licks his lips — and nods.

Aramis grins. "Take me to your bed. I must *please* you."

Porthos growls. "How d'you want to do it," he says, and tugs Aramis through a very-clearly-*artificially*-empty manor house — 

Well-appointed — 

Large — 

Aramis could not care less. He lets himself be tugged as he imagines... "I would like your big cock in my *mouth*, beautiful Porthos..." 

"Not your arse?" 

And what do *you* know of such — well, no, if he asks that question, he will undoubtedly wind up *thoroughly* used in the — 

Well, this appears to be a *Map* room, and he has heard of such things, but never seen — 

"Oh — fuck, Aramis, you're making me feel *really* guilty for not giving you the tour —" 

"I am focused! On sex!" 

Porthos looks at him. 

"Is that the *Alps*?" 

"They are, yes —" 

"Please distract me!" 

Porthos looks at him *differently* — 

Nods — 

"Daddy used to bite my throat like that when I got stroppy as a toddler —" 

"Oh my *God*!" 

"Not that hard, obviously —" 

"You —" 

"— and usually he was a dog at the time —" 

Aramis *chokes* —" 

"— thinner face, and all —" 

"*Porthos*!" 

"I've been at war with myself for about ten years to figure out if I want to misbehave enough to get him to do that to me again," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Aramis has no *idea* how to describe the noise that comes out of his *mouth* — 

And then Treville walks in — 

Glances at the map of the Alps — 

And smiles at both of them. "One, you both smell perfect. Two, Porthos, you really could've just asked." 

"Noted, Daddy. I'm asking. For um — constantly. A lot."

"Noted, son. Three, Aramis, are you sufficiently distracted from the maps?" 

"Yes! God, yes!" 

"Good. But I must interrupt you for a moment, because I owe my son a kiss —" 

"*Where*?" 

Treville's laugh is — barked. *Filthily*, somehow. "Thank you *very* much for that *large* number of beautiful thoughts and images." 

"You're welcome — sir! I've meant to call you —" 

"Shh. All is well, son. But... a moment?" 

Aramis nods spasmodically — "Yes, sir!" 

And, when he looks, Porthos's expression is stunned and eager, hopeful and worried — 

He is not *confident* — 

He is not confident in his ability to *please*, and that is *wrong* —

Aramis does his best to *fill* himself with thoughts of Porthos's prowess, Porthos's natural *gifts* — 

And then Porthos blinks, flares his nostrils, looks to *him* — and smiles, softly, before nodding and turning back to Treville. "I'm. I'm ready." 

Treville *rumbles* a growl and *stalks* into Porthos's space, managing to loom over him quite effectively, despite the height difference being negligible.

"Daddy —" 

"Shh," Treville says, and starts sniffing and nuzzling all over his handsome face, lingering again and again at his mouth. 

Porthos *moans* for this —

Treville *licks* at his mouth — 

"Please —" 

"You took his blood," Treville growls, and licks Porthos's mouth again — 

Again — 

"Did you like it?" 

"Fuck — yes, Daddy!"

Treville growls and kisses him — briefly — 

"Nnh —" 

"I like it, too," Treville says, and *looks* at Aramis for a long moment, a hot moment, a *gleaming* moment — 

Aramis hears himself *moan* — 

And Treville narrows his eyes in a hot *smile* and kisses Porthos again, again, *again* — 

"*Please*, Daddy!" 

"*Yes*," he says, shoving his hands into Porthos's curls and kissing him hard, deep, growling and a little cruel — 

Or perhaps not. 

Porthos is moaning so sweetly, lashes fluttering on his cheeks as he clutches at Treville — 

As he *grips* at Treville's tunic and tries to drag him closer — 

And Treville obliges, taking one hand out of Porthos's hair and stroking down to his arse, cupping and squeezing — 

Porthos bucks — 

Treville *smiles* into the kiss — and strokes Porthos's cleft with hard and obvious intent. 

Porthos's knees buckle — 

Aramis moves to — 

But Treville is fast, and deft, and has his son by the hips just that quickly. He *winks* at Aramis — 

And then kisses Porthos's flushed little ear. "All right, son?" 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

Treville kisses him again. "Shh. Catch your breath." 

Porthos *pants* — 

Gulps — 

And nods, resting his hands on Treville's shoulders while he gets his breath back. 

Aramis wants to *touch* — 

Aramis wants to *help* Treville take his breath away for *hours* — 

Aramis wants to be *between* — 

"I'm — I'm all right, Daddy — fuck, that was even better than my *fantasies*!" 

Treville laughs and nuzzles into Porthos's hair — 

Growls and nuzzles out again — 

Licks all around Porthos's ear — 

"Oh, Daddy — Daddy, I —" 

Treville *bites* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And then Treville steps back. 

"I — Daddy?" 

Treville licks his reddened lips — "Can you remember that kiss, son?" 

"I'll never forget it, Daddy!" 

Treville narrows his eyes *hotly*. "Let me see you give it to your Aramis." 

"My — oh." Porthos moans and turns to him with need, such *need* —

He reaches out — 

"Aramis. Do you want —" 

Aramis is already moving, already pressing close, already *shivering* for the feel of Treville's *gaze* on him — 

So *hot* — 

"Please..." 

"Oh, Aramis, I —" 

"Please give me your father's kiss," Aramis says, and listens to them *both* growl, jumps for it, *needs* for it — 

He is so *hard* again — 

And the first kiss hides a bite — 

And the next soothes it, *soothes* — 

He has no time to cry *out* between kisses — 

He is *aching* — 

*Reaching* for more, so much — 

"*Please*, Porthos!" 

And Porthos looks into his eyes — and smiles like his father, smiles so hot, so hungry, so *confident* — 

The kiss is *hard* — 

The kiss is — 

Is — 

Porthos uses his tongue to fuck Aramis's mouth *slowly*, *viciously*, growls into Aramis's mouth and doesn't stop — 

*Tastes* Aramis's mouth with a hot, vicious sweep — 

Aramis can't *not* imagine Treville doing the same thing to Porthos, looking for the taste of him, of his *blood* — 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

And Porthos kisses him harder, hotter, *yanks* Aramis's hair with one hand, strokes his back, his hip, his *arse* — 

Yes, please — 

Aramis wants to be held, crushed, kissed harder — 

He *sucks* Porthos's tongue — 

Porthos *grunts*, stutters in the *rhythm* of his fuck, yanks Aramis closer, *growls* — 

And Aramis doesn't need witch-powers to know that he's pleasing Porthos, that he's giving Porthos what he wants — what he needs? 

The thrill for that is huge, surprising and *not* — 

He is shivering and *covered* in gooseflesh — 

He wants to stare at the Alps while he gets *fucked* — and the press of Porthos's fingers on his cleft through his trousers — 

The tease of it — his fingers are *shaking*!

And then they're not, then Porthos is pressing hard, *rubbing* hard and steady and rhythmically — 

Pulling *out* of the kiss — 

"No, please, Porthos, please more —" 

Porthos *lunges* for him — and Treville's hand is between them. 

It. 

He — 

They turn to the man *needily* — 

"Upstairs, boys," Treville says, with a *pleased* smile. "You can have everything you want there." 

"Oh — yes, Daddy —" 

"Yes, sir, I apologize —" 

"Shh. All is well," Treville says, and licks Porthos's temple — and strokes Aramis's hair, lightly and easily and *deniably*. 

Until Aramis turns and *kisses* his fingertips, anyway. He looks up into Treville's eyes. 

"Is that so, son?" 

And there is another moment — 

Another *decision* to make — but. He'd already given himself to Porthos. 

And Porthos is looking at him with only hope and desire and *thrilled* joy. 

Aramis smiles. "Yes, sir."

Treville growls — and covers Porthos's hand on Aramis's arse — 

And guides his fingers in Aramis's cleft through his clothes — 

Aramis pushes up on his toes and *whines* — 

"Down, son." 

Aramis grunts and *obeys* — 

And Treville wets his lips again and makes Porthos press on his *hole* — 

"Ohn — please —"

"I'm a lucky man..." And Treville nuzzles into *Aramis's* hair, sniffs and snuffles and growls as he and Porthos *massage* his hole — 

Aramis *groans* — 

And Porthos squeezes Aramis's hip with his other hand. "That looks so good, that — oh, Aramis I'm so glad — and Daddy, please, do you want — do you both want — maybe we could... all together?" 

Treville growls in Aramis's *ear* — 

Aramis cannot feel his *knees*, but — "I have no objection; I want — I want this —" 

"As do I, sons," Treville says, and *licks* Aramis's ear — "Such good boys..." 

Porthos *moans* — 

"I want to fuck you both *senseless*," Treville growls, nuzzling Aramis's ear the whole *time* — 

"Daddy, yes —" 

"Sir... sir... do you feel me *shake*?" 

Treville growls. "Are you saying that some of that's for me, you lovely little boy?" 

*Fuck* — "Yes!" 

"Shh. I'll remember this... for the rest of my days," Daddy says, laughing and pulling back. 

Aramis blinks — 

*Porthos* blinks — "Daddy?" 

And Daddy laughs more, neatening his clothes in a few simple movements that Aramis can't help but approve of — "Certainly I'll remember it for however long your Uncles keep me in — desperately-needed — conversation, Porthos." 

And that answers questions. Apparently, not everyone in this house is *perfectly* free and easy about sexuality, and incest, and — bestiality? 

Is that what it is? 

It bears thought. 

Porthos is very clearly thinking about it, as well. 

"All right, son?" 

"Maybe — maybe *I* should talk to them?" 

"You will — they'll insist on it," Treville says, and cups Porthos's cheek. "Take your pleasure first." 

"I want to take my pleasure with you, too, Daddy," Porthos says, low and measured and sure.

Aramis's cock jerks a little for it — 

And Treville's growl for it is low and rumbling. "I won't let anything keep us from that, son. But our family has more than two people," he says, and raises an eyebrow. 

And Porthos inhales sharply and nods — "Yes, Daddy, I — I won't be selfish." 

Treville smiles warmly, softly — and looks to *him*. "I know you won't be, son. I know you'll remember just what this family *is*," he says, and the message is clear. 

Aramis is to observe. 

Aramis is to *learn*. 

Aramis is to, if not become, then become *fit* for, in every way. 

He will. He *will*. He bows his head to Treville — 

Treville narrows his eyes *again* — 

And then he steps back and away from them — 

And steps back a second time, with an air of *farewell*, rather than anything like finality — 

And Porthos takes Aramis's hand again — 

And leads Aramis upstairs.


	7. The beginnings of permanence.

He sees no signs of his Uncles — or anyone *else* — as he leads Aramis through the manor, and it makes it all feel like some sort of weird not quite beautiful *enough* dream. 

Having Aramis with him is wonderful, and there's a *promise* in every smile and squeeze of his hand, but — 

His family is supposed to be big, and loud, and present, and — 

And the fact that he doesn't actually *want* anyone keeping him from his bedroom right now doesn't mean that the silence isn't *creepy*. 

"Porthos...? You are troubled?" 

But oh, Aramis *seeing* him. *Reading* him, like he does — that's addictive. He turns to face Aramis as he closes his bedroom door behind them. "I — the manor's usually loud, you know?

"A boisterous place?" 

"Oh, yeah! Uncle Kitos *alone* can make a party out of nothing," Porthos says, and wonders if this is where he gives Aramis the tour of his *bedroom*, or...

But Aramis is looking around, himself. 

Touching things lightly — Porthos wants him to touch things harder. He — no. "I don't. I don't keep too many things around me that are easily breakable," he says, and hopes — 

Aramis grins back at him from over his shoulder. He's holding one of Porthos's pairs of riding gloves — 

He brings them to his face — 

He *inhales* — 

Porthos grunts — 

"Are you saying, beautiful Porthos, that you wish me to touch your things more firmly...?" 

"You should. Leave a mark. A lot of marks." 

Aramis winces — but Porthos knows that's lust. He can feel it. "You like that." 

"Yes —" 

"What else do you like?" 

"*You* —" 

"Give me — give me a better *answer*." 

Aramis pants — "I like your scent, your taste, your big *hands* —" 

"Where should my hands be, Aramis?" 

"*On* me. All the *time*." 

Porthos starts to strip — 

"Oh, yes, yes, do —" 

"Don't take your clothes off," Porthos says, and feels like he's losing his mind, like he's light-headed — 

"N-no?" 

"I want to do that for you." 

Aramis gasps — and grins. "For me? Or for you?" 

Teaching — but. "For *me*." 

Aramis *purrs* again. "Where do you *want* me?" 

"*Everywhere*," Porthos says, and strips faster, fast as he can, just — he's never hated his clothes this *much* — "Get on the bed for now, just sit, right at the foot." 

"*Yes*, Porthos —" 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

"Do you like my obedience?" And Aramis is stepping lively, so graceful, so *quick*. "Do you like to see me submit myself to you?" 

"I like *you*," Porthos says, and strokes the cooling spend from around his hard and needy cock before tossing his messy breeches away and *moving* for Aramis — 

Aramis moves his hands to his sides — "Should I ask for a better answer?" 

Porthos growls and *yanks* on the laces of Aramis's shirt — 

"Ahn —" 

"I love everything *about* you —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"And I want you here, with me, all the bloody *time* —" 

"Porthos —" 

"Arms *up*!" 

"*Yes*, Porthos!" And Aramis obeys — 

Porthos manages to get rid of the shirt without tearing it, but he's gulping air, needing, needing — 

"My Porthos, please, please, take what you want —" 

"*Need* you." 

Aramis moans. "Your cock, it is so hard. May I suck?" 

"I — I have to get your *clothes* —" 

"You must take your *pleasure*. Isn't that what your father said?" 

"Oh fuck —" 

"And your Aramis, he needs you to feed him your big cock —" 

"Stop — *stop* — I —" And Porthos is growling, shoving a hand into Aramis's hair, *gripping* — "Do you *want* my cock?" 

Aramis stares at it for a moment and licks his lips before looking up. "Your cock, it will taste like your spend, beautiful Porthos —" 

Porthos hears himself make a *desperate* noise — 

"And you must go back to trusting your *instincts* — *MMPH* — *mm* — *mmmm*..." 

And the look of Aramis with — 

With a stretched mouth — 

The feel of it — 

So wet — 

So *soft* — 

Porthos is *shaking* — 

Yanking Aramis's hair and — 

Aramis *moans* again, and then something happens — 

Something blinding and *hot* — 

And Aramis makes a *slurping* noise, and Porthos realizes that he's sucking, that Aramis is sucking him, that Aramis is sucking his *cock* — 

Porthos *shouts* — 

*Bucks* — 

Knocks Aramis's *head* back, oh, no, oh — 

But then Aramis's hands are on his hips, and they're meeting each other's *eyes*, and Aramis looks so *happy* — 

He sucks *hard* — 

Porthos *yells* and thrusts *again*, and this time Aramis is ready for it, but *he* isn't, not for the slick slide of it, the heat, the friction, the — 

He thrusts again — 

Again — 

Aramis *moans* — 

The — the vibration — 

Porthos is *staggering* — 

Holding Aramis *tighter* — and Aramis is holding him just as tight, pulling him, wanting, urging? 

The feel of him says yes, nothing but *yes*, the feel of him says this is *perfect*, somehow, that Porthos is doing everything *right* — 

Porthos groans — 

Aramis is groaning in his *chest* — 

His mouth is so *tight* on Porthos's cock, so perfectly *tight* — 

His groans are so *deep* — 

Porthos has to stay *in* — and *then* Porthos realizes that he's not pulling out very far anymore, that he's — he's all but *grinding* his cock into Aramis's *throat* — 

Aramis's fingers flutter on his hips — 

Aramis's *lashes* flutter on his cheeks — 

His face is getting so *dark* — 

Porthos gasps *for* him — 

For both of them, because he can't stop, *won't* stop, not while the feel of Aramis still says it's perfect, not while it *feels* this perfect, this hot, this *deep* — 

He *cups* Aramis's head — 

Holds him *in* against his crotch — 

Grinds in, and *in*, and — 

And Aramis starts to swallow around him, starts to — 

And it's so hard, so — 

Porthos is all but *barking* for it, for the *squeeze* of it, please yes, please fuck *yes* — 

He *slams* in and *yells* again and — 

And he's spending, spurting deep in Aramis's throat, bucking and — 

And — 

So good, so hot, so — 

Nothing has *ever* felt so good, and he almost can't *listen* to the little push he feels inside, the little *need* — 

But it's Aramis, his Aramis — 

He pulls *out* — 

Aramis won't *let* him pull all the way out, and his hands are so *strong* for all that they're smaller — 

Porthos moans and spurts *again* — 

And feels that *yes* inside Aramis — it's what he wanted. It's — 

Oh, he wanted Porthos's spend in his *mouth*! Porthos wants *his*, right now, right — 

But Aramis is moaning, suckling, making — 

Making so much *noise* — 

Porthos *groans* — 

He's not going to get soft. He's not — 

Not even a little. This — "Fuck, Aramis, this *hurts*, but I don't want you to *stop*." 

Aramis raises his eyebrows — and then narrows his eyes in a *sweet* smile as he keeps suckling, keeps — 

Porthos groans more — "Your mouth..." 

"Mmm...?" 

"*Unh* — fuck — so soft — so — you're so *beautiful*!"

Aramis hums a *laugh* around him — 

Porthos *whimpers* — 

And Aramis's grin turns wicked as he starts lapping at Porthos's *slit*. 

"Fuck — *fuck* — I never knew. I never *knew*." 

"Mm-hmm...." 

Porthos shudders and *thrusts* — 

"*Mm*!" 

That didn't feel *or* sound like yes. Porthos pulls out all the way — 

Aramis makes a mournful sound — 

"Is your mouth sore?" 

"I — a little —" 

"We'll wait for more, then," Porthos says. 

"It is *not* so sore that we *must* wait, beautiful Porthos — or that I would not enjoy more right now." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "You *really* didn't like that thrust. I could tell." 

And he can *feel* Aramis getting ready to protest — he subsides with a rueful smile. "Yes, Porthos, you are correct. *But*, it was *mostly* because I was unprepared. If you were to, perhaps, *massage* my jaw..." 

"Oh. Oh, yeah?" And Porthos cups Aramis's face and looks for the tight muscles, just like he was taught for men recovering from facial wounds — 

"Ah, I *thought* you would know this," Aramis says, and laughs delightedly. 

Porthos grins at Aramis. "I'll do it. But it'd be better if you got down on your back." 

"As you say. Is this what my Porthos desires? To use his Aramis's mouth all night?" 

Porthos's cock *spasms* as he makes a *helpless* noise — "*Fuck*, Aramis..." 

Aramis laughs, low and *dirty* — 

"You sound a little like Daddy when you do that, you know..." 

"It works so well with you! How could I not?" 

Porthos laughs hard. "Here, let me get you naked. I need to *see* you." 

"I." And there's a pause *in* Aramis, too. 

Porthos blinks and stops reaching for Aramis's trouser laces. "What's wrong?" 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "I am scarred, beautiful Porthos. My arse, my thighs, my hips. They are very marked." 

Porthos growls. "Who — who *hurt* you?" 

Aramis shrugs. "First, my father. Then the priests —" 

Porthos *snarls* — 

"It is not so uncommon, but... I did not want you to be... surprised," Aramis says, and Porthos can feel that he's worried, that he's *more* worried — 

Because of Porthos's reaction? 

Oh — shit. 

Porthos pulls him close and kisses him, kisses him hard but not *too* hard, he *knows* Aramis's mouth hurts — 

He'll be careful — except he can feel that this is wrong, too. This — 

He pulls back. "Aramis? What's wrong? Was that the wrong kiss? I didn't want to hurt your mouth." And Porthos *searches* Aramis, looking for signs, cues — 

He *wishes* he had Daddy's senses — 

"Please tell me —" 

"This... is the only reason you did not kiss me so passionately as before?" 

Oh, *no* — Porthos growls and *knocks* Aramis to the bed, grinds him *down* and bites and nuzzles and kisses so *hard*, and they're both hanging halfway off the bed, but he has to make Aramis *see* — 

Has to make him *feel* right — oh. Long arms round his neck and teasing licks for his tongue, teasing *sucks*, and Porthos can tell that Aramis isn't *happy*, yet, but *is* slightly reassured. 

Porthos pulls back and bites his chin again. 

"Mm —" 

"You know, we're both going to be just... covered in scars when we're older, Aramis. They'll be part of who we are," Porthos says, and tries to *push* that knowledge at Aramis a little. 

Aramis shivers. "It is true that I have always loved the scars of an old soldier." 

"Yeah, eh? I bet Hercule has some *great* ones." 

Aramis smiles a little crookedly. "They were not... like these." 

"Oh, Aramis —" 

Aramis holds up a hand. "I will show you my body. My body is *yours*, beautiful Porthos." 

Porthos grunts — 

Aramis smiles gently. "Everything about me is yours, to do with what you will. I have..." He shakes his head. "You say you love everything about me?" 

"*Yes*!" 

Aramis nods once. "I say I love *you*, beautiful Porthos —" 

"Nnh — oh — fuck —" And Porthos kisses Aramis again, again — 

"Porthos —" 

"Wait, just wait," he says, and drags Aramis further up onto the bed, kisses him more, kisses his bruised throat — "My *lover* —" 

*Aramis* grunts — 

"My — my *brother* — I won't let anyone *hurt* you anymore," Porthos says, and kisses his way down Aramis's chest — 

The lean muscles *jump* — 

His abdominal hair is soft and chestnut and Porthos *wants* to lick, but he bites, he *bites* — 

"*Porthos*!"

"I *love* you!" 

"You — you must take time!" 

"Promise you'll *stay* with me!" 

Aramis pants and pants and — his expression crumples. "Please. Please, you must look at my scars first. You must do this thing." 

Has he been *rejected* for them? Who could be that *mad*? "Of course," Porthos says, and opens Aramis's trousers, and his messy breeches — 

Dreams for a moment of just staying right here and *licking* — 

But that's not what Aramis *needs*. 

He pulls them down and off, and wipes Aramis clean with a dry corner of the breeches, and — 

And he's so beautiful. 

So... 

His cock and balls aren't so big, but they're gorgeous, and there's a little beauty-mark on the underside of Aramis's shaft that he wants to nibble for about a *year*. 

His thighs are long and lean — 

The curls around his cock are so — 

But this isn't what he's supposed to be looking at. This — 

Porthos looks up into Aramis's eyes to check — 

Aramis turns away and bites his *lip* —but he *feels* like yes, so Porthos turns him over gently, and — there they are, livid and a kind of horrible, though only because Porthos knows enough about scars to know how old most of these are. Porthos strokes them firmly, and reverently, and rumbles under his breath like Daddy. 

They had beaten a child, hard enough to break the skin, and then they hadn't treated the wounds anything like properly. 

They'd let that child suffer, heedless of blood-sickness, and — 

And Aramis is taking desperate, hitching breaths. 

"They're part of you," Porthos says, firm and just — *hard*. 

"Porthos —" 

"They're *part* of the man I *love*." 

"Ah — *fuck*," Aramis says, and *sobs* — 

It's not enough. 

It's not *right*, so Porthos shuffles back enough that he can lean in and kiss them, bite them, *suck* the ones on the sweet curve of Aramis's arse — 

"Oh — oh, *fuck*!" 

And Porthos can feel that Aramis is burning inside, roiling, close to tears — "Tell me what to *do*!" 

"I — I — I don't know!" 

And that — that's the most frightening *thing*, but — maybe Porthos can take him *away* from this? 

Make him feel — 

He wants Aramis to always feel *right*, and he doesn't *know* if this is the right thing or just selfish, but it feels so good to *spread* Aramis's arse — 

Aramis cries out and *shakes* — 

And Porthos can see his *hole* flexing closed and open again. He — 

It's the most amazing — 

Porthos growls and kisses it, just kisses it the way he's dreamed of Daddy kissing *his* hole — 

Aramis *screams* — 

The feel of him inside is shocked, loud, roiling *differently* — 

In a better way?

Porthos kisses his hole again, more wetly, *licks* him there and shudders and *groans* helplessly for the salt, the musk, the — the *musk* — 

Aramis flexes open *wide* — 

The feel of him is even *more* shocked — and hungry. 

Porthos growls low and *dives* in for kisses, licks, so many licks, it has to be *all right* here — 

Aramis makes a *croaking* noise — 

Flexes and clenches — 

*Sobs* — 

And Porthos has to give him — 

He scrapes his *teeth* — 

Aramis shouts and *shakes*, spreads his legs *wide* — "*Porthos* —" 

Porthos kisses him again, kisses him as hard as he can, *fucks* him with his tongue — 

"*Yes*!" 

And Porthos blushes, because he's fucking Aramis's arse, because he's —

Oh, he's — 

He *moans* into Aramis's arse — 

Aramis sobs and mutters something incoherent — 

It sounds like broken *Latin* — was it a *prayer*? 

"Porthos — Porthos, *please*!" 

Oh, that — 

That was a plea for more, and he can give that, he can — 

He spreads Aramis wider and scrapes his teeth again, licks at the tight, shiny skin of Aramis's cleft — 

He shivers like a *horse* — 

Porthos groans and sucks *hard* kisses up and down Aramis's cleft, tries to mark, to claim, to *take* —

But that hole is — quivering. 

Slick with his spit and *quivering* and Porthos can't — 

He *sucks* a kiss — 

Aramis *howls* — 

And Porthos has to do that again, again and again *while* fucking him, having him, *having* him, that musk, that — 

That *dark* taste, and Porthos can *feel* that Aramis isn't thinking about anything but this now, that he's given himself *over* to this, to *him* again — 

Porthos tries wiggling his tongue a little — 

Aramis kicks at the *bed* — 

*Sobs* again — 

Howls *more* when Porthos sucks while doing that — 

So perfect, so — 

So perfect and delicious and Porthos wants to do this every *day*, wants — 

"Yes — yes, please — eat me *alive*!" 

Wants *that*, and they're *both* thrusting against the mattress, both needing just a little more, but — Porthos pulls back — 

"No, no, *no* — *fuck*, I apologize —" 

"No, fuck, I want to do this all *day*, but — help me spread you?" 

"Oh — *oh*," Aramis says, and reaches down to spread himself *brutally* with both hands — 

"Oh, *Aramis*," Porthos growls, diving back in and *shoving* one hand under Aramis and one hand under himself, and — 

He was wrong before.

Nothing has ever been better than eating Aramis's arse while tossing both of them off. 

Nothing has ever been more — *more*, because his mouth knows *exactly* what it wants to do — 

And Aramis is sobbing — 

And he's fucking his own *fist* — 

And Aramis is fucking his *other* fist — 

And Aramis is *keening* — 

And Porthos squeezes with both hands and sucks *hard* — 

Aramis wails like a *child* — 

It shocks another *growl* out of Porthos — and then Aramis is clenching *tight* around his tongue and pumping hot spend all over his *hand* and that — 

He'd wanted it in his *mouth* — 

But he has to admit that this is just as good. This — 

He can keep it *up* while Aramis shudders and sobs and pants through his spending, try to be just a little gentler with that hand, keep licking, keep tonguing, keep *sucking* while he tosses himself off fucking brutally — 

He needs — 

He *needs* — 

He seizes up *tight* when Aramis *groans* — 

When he pants and groans *again* — 

"Perhaps... perhaps my beautiful Porthos would like to spend himself on my hole?" 

*Oh* — 

"You have... made it all clean," Aramis says, and the smile in his voice is so — so — 

Porthos scrambles to his *knees* — 

"It's ready for your *mark*, beautiful Porthos, ready for your —" 

"*Fuck*!" And Porthos gasps and gasps and stares *helplessly* as his spend *smacks* Aramis's cleft, and arsecheek — 

He aims — 

He has to — 

He *has* to, and there it is, right on that hole, and in it, and Porthos is on fire, he's groaning, shuddering, fighting not to jerk in his own fist — 

"Oh, *Porthos*..." 

Except that he's actually *strangling* his cock, whining — 

"Porthos?" 

"Don't *move*," he growls — 

"I will not!" 

And just the thought of that — 

Aramis had *said* his body was for *Porthos*, that he could do *anything* — 

Porthos groans and spurts *again* — 

*Again* — 

"Porthos, *yes*!" 

"I *need* you!" 

"I'm yours!" 

And the only possible response to that is to get back down, lick Aramis clean, suck and nuzzle and *bite* him clean — 

"My God!" 

Tell him he's beautiful, *beautiful*, slur it right into his messy hole as it quivers and clenches — 

As Aramis kicks his *legs* — 

Lick more — 

More, and Aramis is moaning and gurgling, shuddering all over — but. 

There's no more spend. 

Porthos kisses Aramis *softly* — 

Aramis cries out and *jerks* — 

Oh... but. Porthos covers Aramis's shaking hands on his arse. "Aramis, do you want more of this or can we try something else?" 

"Anything!" 

And that's not the most helpful answer, but Porthos can feel that it's true, just the same. All right. Porthos gently tugs Aramis's hands away from himself and lays them flat on the bed — 

"Oh — Porthos." 

"All right?" 

Aramis laughs wildly. "I have never been *better*. I — may I turn over?" 

Porthos's gut clenches — he knows what it *means* that Aramis is asking for permission, and there's a reflexive urge to say no, to keep Aramis there on his belly, to make him — 

To *make* him, and Porthos wants everything right *now* — 

There's *nothing* he doesn't want right *now* — 

"No?" 

Porthos pants. But. "Yes," he says, hoarse and rough, and moves to Aramis's side. 

Aramis turns *onto* his side immediately, and he is... 

His hair is lank with sweat — 

His mouth is swollen and his lips are *freshly*-bitten — 

His face — his *body* — is flushed and shining with sweat — 

His cock is so *hard* — and his bollocks are drawn up —

Even though he's just *spent* — 

Porthos's mouth is watering, and he can't — 

He reaches, and Aramis immediately bends his leg up so that Porthos can have *access* — "Oh — Aramis..." 

"Is this what you want? Mm? To touch...?" 

Porthos cups Aramis's tight and somehow *tidy* bollocks and squeezes gently —

Aramis moans softly — 

Pants — 

His *tongue* is showing, and — 

"Oh — fuck. I want to kiss you. Let me — let me go wash my mouth —" 

"Is this what you want to do?" 

"What?" 

Aramis smiles — hungrily. "Is this what you want to *do*. Leave your Aramis's side? Leave this fragrant bed —" 

"*Fuck* — my — Daddy *told* me that you're supposed to — to wash your mouth after — doing that."

Aramis grins *wide*. "With everyone...?" 

Porthos blinks. "No. With — most people." 

"Am I most —" 

Porthos pounces on Aramis, flattens him — 

Aramis gasps *bright* laughter, so sweet and high — 

Breathes it into Porthos's mouth — 

"Mm — oh — oh, yes — oh, my Porthos..." 

"You — you like —" 

"I taste that *you* like the dirtiest parts of me —" 

"I *love* you!" 

And, this close, Porthos can feel Aramis's cock jerk for that, see him flush harder, feel him tense and shiver and —

Give. 

Porthos kisses him right down to the bed. He'd made a good start at making Aramis understand that he belongs right here. Daddy will do the rest.


	8. A family is built on communication, among other things.

"Meneur..." 

Treville doesn't tense — he doesn't think he's capable of tensing up for all the wonderful sensations that mean Reynard and Kitos are coming closer — but... 

"Fearless, are we going to have this conversation in the *hallway*?" 

But that. 

"Specifically, cher, are we going to have this conversation in the hallway outside of your son's bedroom while he makes love for the first time?" 

Treville rolls his head on his neck, feeling his dog's ruff — "Our son. And — the second time." 

Kitos grunts. "*Really*. Already? Good on him." 

Treville licks his lips. "Very much so." 

Reynard sighs. "So. The answer is —" 

"We're not close enough to hear anything," Treville says, just as if — 

Kitos smacks the back of his head. "*You* can practically *taste* what they're doing from this distance, you prick." 

"Right," Treville says, "And that was the least of what I deserve —" 

"But mon frère, mon cher, you do not actually believe that," Reynard says in a quiet voice.

Treville takes a shuddering breath — 

Tastes his son's *desire* — 

Tastes *Aramis's* *wondering* desire — and growls. "No, I don't."

Kitos grunts — 

Reynard smells *hurt* — 

And Treville turns to face both of them, to give them both his *eyes*. "He told me, tonight, that he's been dreaming of me since he began dreaming of *sex*. He told me that he needs me. He told me..." Treville growls — "Do either of you honestly believe I'd take *this* if it wasn't wanted?" 

"*No*, Fearless," Kitos says, booming quietly and making soothing gestures — 

"No, I do not," Reynard says, but... "I think, perhaps, sometimes desire is not *enough*." And he smiles ruefully. 

Treville doesn't *growl* — 

But both of them gesture for peace, anyway, both of them — 

They know him better than anyone other than Laurent, and that — "I talked to Laurent about it." 

Kitos and Reynard share a look. 

"What?" 

"Meneur... we are not so sure about how *he* relates to his sons." 

And that — Treville barks a laugh. "Neither is he, lads. He advised me to get a whore for Porthos —" 

Kitos coughs. "*Laurent* did?" 

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Treville says. "He wanted me to get used to thinking of Porthos sexually only with other people." 

"This is a *good* plan," Reynard says — 

"Except that I could... feel that something was wrong right away, when I broached the matter *with* Porthos." 

"Oh... bloody hell. It's the sodding connection between you two acting up, isn't it. *That's* what you're saying?" And Kitos's words are worried — even exasperatedly so — but everything else about him is... relieved. 

Treville can taste that even better than he can taste Porthos's sweat, hear his cries — 

Feel him — 

*Feel* him *losing* himself — 

Aramis had sucked him for the very first time, and it's something Treville had wanted — *craved* — but this... 

Perhaps it's better?

Cleaner by the definition of someone — 

"Meneur...?" 

— not him. "It's not — just — the connection, lads. Don't — I can feel you both wanting to excuse it that way, but — you can't." 

Reynard falls into a casually-beautiful lean against the wall. "We only wish to use this excuse because we know we cannot truly stop you, cher. Truly, we know better." 

Kitos sighs. "So we do," he says, and adjusts his spectacles on his rakishly broken nose. "You've never once started something only to back out." 

"You've never once kissed a boy and then... well. Have you kissed him, meneur?" 

Treville growls and — no. "I have. It was... everything."

Kitos and Reynard share a long look, and a part of Treville can only wonder if they would attack him for this, if they would restrain him — or try. 

*Could* he fight his brothers? 

For his son? 

Has he just torn his family apart? 

Right now, his perfect son is trying to reassure Aramis about the scars various *monsters* have left on him — 

Treville wants to help, to show them *both* — 

And Kitos clears his throat like a round from a musket — 

And Reynard settles *comfortably* against the wall, pulling on a *wry* expression — 

And Kitos cups his wonderful belly, drumming his fingers on it — 

His brothers are giving him a show. A very *specific* show, though Treville honestly can't be sure... he raises an eyebrow. 

"Well, what *about* this whore you've brought home for our boy, Fearless?" 

"Ah, oui! He must be something *truly* special..." 

Oh. They — this is their decision. This is where they've made their *stand*. And this — 

Everything in their eyes says not to comment on it, not to touch it, *yet*, because it's too *new*, too fragile — 

Treville nods once — and then lets himself react to the *words* they'd said, and ducks his head slightly. 

"What the —" 

"*This* you show shame for? *This*, meneur?" 

"What *is* it about the boy?" 

"Our son has just dived face-first into his arse, and that is only the *latest* proof of his taste and distinction," Treville says, and sighs, looking up again — 

Falling into the rhythms of their *brotherhood* again — 

Kitos and Reynard cough *together* — 

"In all seriousness, I'm going to adopt him, if he lets me." 

Kitos's cough gets that dangerous little wheeze— 

Treville and Reynard both move to rub his chest — 

Kitos holds up a hand to stop them — 

"Ah, oui? You are certain, verrat?" 

"Yes," Kitos says, and coughs a little more, "because I need him a good distance away so I can do *this*," he says, and *smacks* Treville again. 

"I could eventually get upset —" 

"*Tell us about the boy*," Reynard says, and starts rubbing Kitos's chest anyway — 

Kitos rumbles like boulders rolling down a mountain — he'll be all right. 

And — so will they. Somehow. Treville sighs. "Porthos picked him out of the crowd right away. He was *studying*." 

"In a *brothel*?" 

"Oui, and not for, you know, show?" 

"Not a bit of it, lads. He's a *scholar*." 

"There are many jokes we are not offering in respect to your obviously tender *feelings*, meneur —" 

Treville snorts. "He's a *Bible* scholar, you arseholes, so watch yourselves when you're talking about our Lord and Saviour." 

"But." 

"I..." 

Treville — snickers like a boy. And picks a patch of wall to lean against himself. "He gave our — enchanted — son lessons in *scripture* right there in the middle of Tristan's." 

"Fearless, you need to visit less rarefied fuckholes." 

Reynard splutters — 

"You know I'm right, fox-face —" 

Treville whips out his dagger and makes a show of cleaning his nails. "He's also," he says, "got a fine and vicious set of trigger calluses." 

"Oh —" 

"Shit —" 

"Both hands?" 

Treville nods.

"The little preacher — you are saying he wants to be a *soldier*?" And Reynard is excited enough by that that he's *stopped* rubbing Kitos's chest. 

Treville grins. "Tristan advised against choosing him because he was 'mouthy and difficult' —" 

"And you nearly ran over your own child to get to his difficult arse," Kitos says — 

"I did *not*. I expressed my approval of his good *taste* —" 

Kitos snorts — 

Reynard splutters — 

"— and went to see about arranging a room for them. By the time I'd done that, Porthos had already charmed the thorns right off the boy —" 

"Ah, bien sûr." 

"Yeah, that's a given." 

Reynard sighs. "Notre homme puissante — he is mighty in *many* ways." 

"And all our Porthos was doing was being honest with the boy and smiling that smile and looking deep into his eyes —" 

"All of the above," Treville says, and smiles with that hard pride that takes him over now, that *needy* pride — 

"That's the look," Kitos says quietly, and Reynard nods. 

Treville blinks — and raises an eyebrow. 

Kitos smiles ruefully. "It's the one that made us worry, Fearless. You've always been obvious about loving and needing Porthos, but —" 

"Wanting to devour him whole," Reynard says. "That was new." 

Treville inhales — and nods. There's nothing he can hide here. "He's — my boy. My big, sweet, beautiful boy." 

Reynard shivers — 

"Hearing those words in that voice, Fearless..." 

"It will take a little getting used to, cher. Give us. Give us *some* time." 

Treville nods once. "Should I *not* talk about Aramis?" 

"Oh, no, you want that boy like *mad*, Fearless —" 

"Enough to trigger your — should we call it his need to nest, frère?" 

"Oh, yeah, yeah, fox-face. We should probably warn Laurent about it." 

"Ah, no, all is well. Laurent has a spare." 

"True, that," Kitos says, nodding judiciously. 

And then they look at him expectantly. 

And Treville can't do anything but *stare* back. 

He — 

No, he can laugh, helpless to his beautiful brothers as always — 

And Reynard grins and cups the back of his neck and tugs in that gentle way that always makes Treville growl for him — 

"Meneur, *yes*..." 

And Kitos joins in the tugging, laughing hard enough to make his belly quake, pulling Treville into a tight, *hard* three-way hug that's so warm — 

That could only be better *with* Porthos between them — 

They'd raised him to be — 

"Ah, but our boy, he is one of *us*, is he not, Kitos?" 

Kitos rumbles. "From the very beginning." 

"Amina, she named him for us," Reynard says, and kisses Treville's ear. 

"And never objected to us teaching him the *filthiest* shit," Kitos says, booming laughter and making them *all* shake — 

Treville nuzzles into that magnificent beard and kisses Kitos's jaw — when he can find it. 

Kitos rumbles *more* — 

And Reynard makes a hungry noise and nips Treville's throat — 

"Oh — brother —" 

"I cannot kiss your mouth and taste Porthos. I cannot — I *cannot* —" 

Treville turns and kisses his cheek, his ear. "I nuzzled Aramis, licked him —" 

"You licked the taste of him from Porthos's *mouth* and you *know* it, Fearless," Kitos says, and he's panting and flushed —-

He wants this, wants *Treville*, as much as Reynard does — 

And they need time. 

Treville nuzzles deep into all that hair and kisses Kitos's throat hard, promisingly, just the way they *both* like — 

"*Fearless* —" 

And then Treville turns and kisses a teasing path along Reynard's jaw that ends with a hard bite to his ear, just the way *they* both like — 

"Oh — cher —" 

Treville steps back, and raises his hands. "I know you can't. I know *neither* of you can. I know you're trying to —- to heal this *rift* between us — this rift *I* made — in every possible way you can, and I can't even begin to express how much I appreciate that —" 

"Cher, do not *appreciate* me. When you *appreciate* me, you are far *away*!" 

"*Exactly*," Kitos growls. 

Treville winces — and nods. "You're right. You're absolutely right. But — Reynard. Kitos. You have to be a little far away from me right now —" 

"*Non* —" 

"That's *shite* —"

"You *have* to — at least until you see, for yourselves, that I'm not hurting Porthos," Treville says, and raises both eyebrows. 

Kitos takes a breath — 

Reynard winces. "You would *never* —" 

"But there are some things that would hurt a child even if they're not meant that way. Even if they're not *offered* that way. Right?" 

Reynard beats at the wall with his fist and growls. "You know this is so! You know it *changes* them!" 

"I do," Treville says. 

Kitos sighs. "I can't stop thinking... we used to make a game of it back when we were regular Army." 

Oh... 

"We told you a little about it over the years, fox-face, but..." Kitos shakes his head. "For a while it was the best game in the world to see how long it took Fearless here to turn some good, pious little farmboy into a desperate whore of a catamite, greedy for cock every minute of every *day*." 

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose. "I did stop that when I grew up a little."

"You did, you did — and when we got you Reynard to play with, instead." 

"Ah, oui. You needed a little time to make me your cockslut," Reynard says, and eyes him levelly. 

Kitos is giving him the same look, and, ultimately... 

"The two of you have never seen me give forever to a boy." 

"No, cher. We have not." 

Treville closes his eyes. "He's my son. He's my *pride*. He's the blood in my *veins*. He's not a boy I want to dally with for a day, or a week, or a month. I want..." Treville gnashes his teeth and opens his eyes. "He's my *son*." 

Kitos and Reynard nod slowly and thoughtfully. 

"You need to talk to *him*." 

"We already *know* what he will *say*, cher —" 

"And you won't listen to him? *Our* boy? Our level-headed to a *fault* boy?" 

"He's *never* been level-headed about *you*, Fearless. We *raised* him not to be." 

"I —" 

"We *all* raised him not to be, meneur — including Amina! You were the hero of all her *stories*." 

"And *most* of ours," Kitos says, gently. "Had you forgotten?" 

Treville opens his mouth — and closes it. And nods. 

And paces away — 

No, that brings him too close to where Aramis and Porthos are kissing, whispering — 

Loving each other — 

Becoming so *close* — 

And Treville cannot, *cannot* leave them be. 

But he can for just this moment. 

He moves back to his brothers — 

Kitos cups the back of his neck. "Why don't you tell us more about this Aramis, hey? What makes *him* more than just a dalliance?"

Treville opens his mouth — 

"Tell us everything! Do not — do not be so clever, just now," Reynard — pleads. 

Treville blinks — and nods. "Porthos was about as capable of keeping secrets with him as he is with any of *us* —" 

"And you did not intervene?" 

Treville shows his teeth. "I thought about it. Multiple times. But... I could smell the boy. And it was obvious that Porthos could *feel* the boy. And, while all this was going on, Hercule the bouncer — who had another name when he was Army — was telling me beautiful and cock-hardening things *about* the boy — and his ability to dish out harm with guns and knives. So, when Porthos called me over to tell me that his new best friend wanted to be a *soldier*..." 

"Wait, he did not make love with the boy *there*?" 

"Not a bit of it, Reynard," Treville says, and grins. "I have some bad news for our accounts, Kitos." 

"You bought him." 

"That I did —" 

"*Meneur* —" 

"When, precisely, have any of us been led astray when *both* my and Porthos's instincts are saying the same thing?" 

"*Never*, Fearless, but, see, usually, it's not your *cocks* saying the same thing —" 

"*Very* true, so I listened to their talk on the way home — after seeing that Aramis knows his way around a horse —" 

"Oh, well, that's — no, keep *going* —" 

"I listened to their talk," Treville says, and smiles, and shakes his head. "He is a *remarkably* open-minded boy, and brilliant, and loving, and violent, and *filthy*-minded —" 

"And he is beautiful enough —" Reynard cuts himself off with a growl. "We must meet him." 

"You will. Give him time to settle in." 

"Settle — Fearless. Are you saying you've already made that decision, too?" 

He can't do that. He — 

He can't make unilateral *decisions* like that — but. It's not really unilateral, is it? He nods down the hallway. "Porthos is in love with him."

Kitos grunts — 

"Meneur... I know *you* can sense much about a person —" 

"The boy has been ready to chain himself to Porthos's ankles since before I bought him, though *he* wasn't sure about that for a good little while after that."

"No, I imagine not," Reynard says, and looks at him shrewdly. 

"Ask. Whatever it is." 

"You said he was a scholar. How did he wind up at Tristan's, mm?" 

"He ran away from some Church school. He's not old enough for seminary, I don't think, but he *is* smart enough." 

"Why did he run away," Kitos says — not asks. 

They both know... well. 

Treville looks down the hall at the closed door. "Not too long ago, Porthos was comforting the boy about the apparently numerous and terrible scars on his thighs and backside, and how they don't make Porthos love him less." 

"Fuck —" 

"*Merde* —" 

"Exactly —" 

"These sodding *priests* —" 

"Apparently, the father was no better," Treville says, "which is why he goes by Aramis and not something else."

"I —" 

"Hunh," Kitos says. 

"I had assumed, you know. That this was his *business* name," Reynard says, and *both* he and Kitos raise their eyebrows at him. 

Treville grunts a laugh. "He flirts like he breathes. When he actually means it, he'll look you in the eye and show you the world —" 

"And he makes you a bloody *poet*, Fearless," Kitos says — warns. 

And Reynard's eyes are getting just a little... hot. 

Treville moves close to him, cups his beautiful face — 

"Non, meneur, you were talking —" 

"Frères toujours." 

Reynard *pants*. "You should not still be able to *do* this to me so quickly —" 

Kitos booms a laugh — "And when he's been talking about pretty little boys, too." 

"Stop helping, you great berk —"

Kitos laughs like a *rockslide* —

And Reynard *grins*. "How pretty is he, mm? Tell me one of those scars is on his perfect little face." 

"I — can't do that —" 

"*Ach* —" 

"But Porthos keeps inadvertently sending me images of his quite average-sized cock —" 

"Ah, *oui*? Only average?"

"There's a freckle —" 

"*I* have freckles!" 

"But *not* on your cock —" 

And Kitos is wheezing again — 

"Oh, non, non, we are murdering notre verrat," Reynard says, pushing away and moving to *massage* Kitos's broad chest while Kitos leans against the wall and laughs — 

And winks at Treville from behind his spectacles — 

"You laugh, verrat, but you see how you feel when one day notre meneur brings home a great, shaggy boy —" 

Kitos *chokes* — 

"With hands like dinnerplates —" 

"Hairy dinnerplates," Treville says. 

"Woolly, fuzzy — well, he will be a massive and shaggy boy and he will be able to swat lesser boys across *rooms* with his dinnerplates —" 

"He'll have a full beard despite being twelve," Treville says, and leans against the opposite wall, crossing his feet at the ankles — 

"The beard will start at his eyebrows, bien sûr —" 

Kitos whoops a little — and that was an *actually* dangerous sound. 

They pause, and let him catch his breath. 

It takes more whoops and too much coughing by half.

It — 

The best that can be said is that it's no worse than it was five years ago — it's certainly no better, and it won't be. 

When the fit's passed, Kitos is dark with flush under his hair and bitterly angry under his mask of rueful good humor. 

And the boys are in the hall. 

Neither of them had bothered with their messy breeches, by the scents, and Aramis is hanging back a little behind Porthos — 

They smell wonderful just the same, musky and warm, loving and loved — 

Treville *fights* back a rumble — "You boys should go back to bed."

"No, it's — um." And Porthos turns back to Aramis. "Aramis knows something that might help Uncle Kitos feel a little better. A drink." 

Treville blinks — 

"This is so?" And Reynard's voice is cautious, but not as cold as it could be. "We have tried many things. And I am Reynard." 

Aramis bows to both him and Kitos. "I am Aramis. When I was a boy, there was a hedge-witch who lived outside of my town, and she shared many secrets with me before I was sent to school. This drink, it will not *cure* you — I know of no cures — but it eases the throat, and it makes *breathing* easier for a few days after you consume it, it is said. The ingredients are simple, though I believe they will be harder to find in the winter. I could, if you wished, teach your cooks to brew it."

Kitos blinks and looks to Reynard —

"We've talked to witches — not hedge-witches — and they've not mentioned this drink, Aramis," Reynard says, gently. 

Perhaps he can guess that some of the scars they can't see, right now, undoubtedly came from Aramis's friendship with that hedge-witch. 

Aramis smiles ruefully. "Many times the hedge-witch would say: 'Witches will always try to teach themselves how to fly over a hole that a hedge-witch will walk around.'"

And that — Treville snorts — 

And Kitos booms laughter — a little more quietly than before. "Yes, they will. They *all* bloody will. They'll do it even if literally everyone they *trust* tells them *not* to. *Right*, Fearless?" 

Treville snickers like a boy — 

"Bloody *right*?" 

Reynard pushes a hand into Treville's hair and kisses his temple. "You will agree or I will make you *very* sorry," he says — and that is absolutely a dagger toying with his buttons. 

Mm. "Will you, now." 

"Ah, oui. I will make you hurt," he says with his mouth, and his eyes say "will you love me forever?" 

Treville tangles his hand in Reynard's long ponytail and kisses his mouth — dryly. "Toujours ne suffit pas."

"Basset. *Fox*-face. Stop being terrifying and make like we're a family or something. We've got an incredibly helpful boy to not *immediately* chase away," Kitos says. 

Treville grins — 

And Reynard's grin is almost *smoky* in its promise as he sheaths his dagger, twists free of Treville's grip, and turns back to Aramis, who is studying them all very obviously. 

Porthos is doing the same, in a quieter way. Porthos knows exactly what's been going on out here, and it's bruising him a little. 

He needs — not just his Daddy. 

He needs his whole family, and he needs his whole family to be *right*. 

And that family includes Aramis now — Treville would know that even without the way their hands have just sort of *migrated* together, twining tightly. 

Aramis is blushing, just a little, but standing just as straight and tall as he can. 

Porthos is quietly ready to take on the world — though there's some question as to whether he knows that, yet. 

Treville turns to Kitos and Reynard to make sure *they* know — 

And they both nod to him. Good enough. 

Treville subsides against the wall. 

Reynard steps forward. "Aramis, homme *puissante*. You know we have questions, oui?" 

Porthos smiles at Aramis, who looks back — with the world in his eyes. "We have answers," Porthos says. 

"Even when our questions turn personal? And please do not answer for Aramis this time, Porthos." 

"Even then," Porthos says, and firms his mouth into a hard line. 

Aramis's smile gets closer to the ones he wore at Tristan's — older and darker. "I am accustomed to personal questions M'sieu Reynard — and I think you can guess how?" 

Both Kitos and Reynard take note of *all* of that — 

And Reynard nods. "As you say, Aramis. I appreciate you allowing this questioning —" 

Aramis holds up a hand. "You are Porthos's family. I am a teenaged whore whose not-insignificant debts your brother agreed to pay in order to purchase me — and *not* as a pleasure-slave. He did this without so much as consulting with you, and then refused to allow you to meet me until after I had made love with your Porthos twice. Your forbearance has been quite great, to be frank." 

"Well, I can see the brain in his head," Kitos says. 

Treville rumbles. "As an aside, I had to spend a rather significant amount of time fighting off Hercule — the bodyguard, you'll recall — to keep him from handing me *his* savings in order to help pay for Aramis to become a Musketeer." 

"Oh — what — no! He mustn't! He needs that money! He is going to buy a little cottage, and make wine — no, please —" 

"Easy, son," Treville says, and smiles gently. "I would no more take that man's money than I would let you earn your keep on your back."

"He is all right?" 

"I know he took care of you. We'll do the same for both of you." 

Aramis bites his lip and nods, and turns back to Reynard. "Please — ask all of your questions. *Give* them to me. I do not mind them. Even if they are on painful subjects — how could I mind? Your Treville, he has offered me a chance at a dream I've had since I was a *boy* and the soldiers would ride through my town — and talk of the hardest, strongest, bravest, truest, most awe-inspiring soldiers *they* had known! Your Porthos —" 

"Yours, *too*, Aramis," Porthos says, and squeezes his hand — 

And Aramis flushes and shivers — 

Ducks his head — 

Porthos growls and nuzzles into his hair... exactly the way Treville does to *him* when he wants to devour him whole, instead, but can't. 

Aramis turns into it and pants, licks his lips, smiles with *obvious* helplessness — "Porthos gives me everything, everything wild, everything sweet, everything warm and beautiful —" 

"*You*," Porthos says, and bites his *ear* — 

Aramis *gasps* — "Porthos will drive his Aramis to his knees in a very unfortunately-timed display of affection if he is not careful —" 

Kitos snorts hard. "He's your son, all right, Fearless. Maybe we should start calling him Shameless."

Reynard presses a knuckle to his wry smile. "Ah, oui, I see possibilities in this." 

"Porthos — Porthos —" 

Porthos growls and bites Aramis's *throat* — 

Aramis's lashes flutter — 

And Treville walks over and prises them apart. 

Gently. 

"Mm — wha — Daddy —" 

"Conversation *first*, son." 

Porthos blinks himself out of his *daze* — 

This close, the scents of Aramis's musk are blinding — 

Porthos really had *ground* his face in that arse — 

No wonder he can't think straight — 

No, no, *focus*. He turns to Aramis. "All right, son?" 

Aramis pants and smiles ruefully. "I have many questions about how you all *raised* Porthos that he could be so... ah. Unlike any other virgin I have *ever* known?" He laughs wildly. "What did you *do* to him? What sort of — of *primers* did you teach him from, mm? Perhaps they belong on the bookshelves at Tristan's!" 

Porthos blushes *quite* adorably — 

Aramis squeezes and *strokes* his hand — 

And Kitos snickers like a boy for a moment before clearing his throat. "We of *course* provided our boy with a well-rounded education." 

"In whoring," Treville says, grinning and giving the boys their space again. 

"But —" 

Reynard sighs. "Porthos, he did not want to actually go *with* Kitos and me when we offered to take him with us —" 

"And I *daresay* we know a bit more about *why*," Kitos says, beetling his brows in an excellent impression of fearsomeness. 

"I just... wanted Daddy for this," Porthos says, and he isn't actually hesitant, or rueful, or shamed... 

Or anything but matter-of-fact. 

Reynard and Kitos nod — 

And Kitos frowns a little more truly. "Porthos, lad, your Daddy told us... well, you've wanted him for a good, long while, haven't you?"

"The first time I got hard I was thinking about Daddy being the dog and, you know, wrestling with me. You'd already told me what to *do* when I got hard, Uncle, so it was a *really* good day."

Kitos stares. 

Reynard stares. 

"Why is that so *weird* to everyone? I *know* you all fuck him when he's a dog —" 

"Son," Treville says, and *doesn't* laugh. "They... had to be talked into it." 

Porthos blinks. "Really?" 

"Yes." 

"*Really*?" 

"Yes —" 

"But —" 

"It's completely normal to you because you grew up with it, son. Absolutely no one else did." Treville considers — "Probably." 

"Well, I — it's not like I want to have sex with *other* dogs." 

Aramis says a quick and relieved-sounding prayer — 

"And —" Reynard clears his throat. Twice. "And we are all very relieved about that, Porthos. But..." 

"Mm?" 

Reynard stares. 

"Uncle?" 

Reynard licks his lips. 

"Are you all right, Uncle?" 

"I have no idea what to say to you. My boy, my mighty boy, you are growing up!" 

"Oh. I. Uh. Yeah?" 

"Tell me, tell me like the big boy you are, like the *man* you are *becoming* with each second that *passes* — no matter what we all do to *stop* them from passing —" 

"Don't —" 

"*Tell* me you are happy, Porthos. Tell me this is *right*, for you, and I will relax." 

"And — and stop questioning Daddy?" 

Aramis squeezes Porthos's hand — 

"I — but you have to do that. You have to," Porthos says, and nods judiciously before looking to all of them again. "I'm happy. It's *right*. When I was trying to hide how I felt from Daddy, and he was trying to hide how he felt from *me*? It was awful. It was *wrong*. You've always all joked about how I can't keep secrets for *anything*, but this was different. This was *hurting* him — and I could feel it. Just like Daddy could feel *his* secrets hurting me. 

"And you could say, 'all right, the secrets are out, now you can just know and keep your hands to yourselves,' but since when does that sound like *anyone* in this house? 

"Since when does that sound like anyone we *know* — well. Other than Uncle Laurent — and him only *sometimes*. No, I want my Daddy, and he wants me, and we're *going* to have each other — and we'll both have Aramis, because he wants us, and — it's right. We *fit*. Just like *you* all fit. Uncle Kitos, you told me once that when you met Uncle Reynard you felt *stupid*, because you hadn't realized for all those years that you and Daddy had been *missing* a piece. That it was just obvious, that — that you *had* to make it work, and you were actually going a little mad in those first few days because Daddy was spending so much time with Laurent instead of getting to know Reynard with you." 

Kitos cocks his head to the side. "That's what you're feeling, lad? That... urgency?" 

"Well — yes and no? Because Aramis *already* sees how good Daddy is, and Daddy already sees how good Aramis is, so it's *almost* right. Almost." 

Reynard makes a small sound. "What do you need to *make* it right?" 

Porthos smiles at Aramis, who looks like he wants an answer to that question, too. 

Treville *absolutely* does — but. He also thinks he has it. "You need us to be settled. Don't you, son." 

"Daddy, *yes*. We — we need — no, you *know* what we need!" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "We might want to *ask* Aramis if he'd *like* to be the legal son and brother of his lovers, son —" 

"It's — it's more than *law*, Daddy!" 

And sometimes Treville could let Porthos's passion wash over him — 

Sometimes he could let himself *drown* in it and never come up, never breathe in anything *else* — 

But there is Aramis, who looks frankly stunned. 

Kitos laughs quietly — for him — and waves a hand in front of Aramis's face. "We've lost him, mates. Get the smelling salts." 

"I! I have not fainted! Yet." 

"Ah, no? Bien! Do you have family who will object strenuously and violently to your kidnapping? Perhaps this hedge-witch?"

Treville blinks and *looks* at Reynard. 

"What? Our boy has made his points most excellently and well —" 

"And a lot more concisely than you, Fearless." 

"Oui, oui, notre meneur, he is very bad at expressing himself when his cock is aching." 

Kitos sighs mock-sadly. "'s true. 's a terrible shame. Somebody ought to do something about that." 

"Ah, oui, this — *merde*, Porthos, do not volunteer where I can hear you and imagine it in detail for the rest of my natural *life*!" 

Porthos blinks. "Does this mean I can't talk about my fantasies about you and Uncle Kitos?" 

Treville bites the very tip of his tongue — 

Reynard makes a sound in his throat like rusted *gears* grinding together — 

Aramis looks *deeply* interested — 

And Kitos sighs and claps Reynard on the shoulder. "We're paying for our sins, mate." 

"Why. Why is notre meneur not paying for *his* sins?" 

"We're paying for those, too." 

Reynard whimpers — 

And *Aramis* clears his throat. 

"Yes, son?" 

"I was wondering... perhaps M'sieu Kitos and M'sieu Reynard are religious?" And Aramis smiles hopefully. 

Kitos and Reynard look just as horrified for that as they ought, really. 

"Ah —" 

"Erm." 

"That is — 

"Well —" 

"No. 

"Non." 

"No, lad," Kitos says — 

"Truly no," Reynard says, and smiles ruefully. "But we have no objections to *you* being religious, especially since you seem to manage it in a way that is... open? Also, please, call us simply by our names."

Aramis offers his own smile.. "Thank you both. And... as I had begun to explain to Porthos, the true words of the Saviour are words of love and acceptance and brotherhood. Brotherhood for *all*." 

"Sodding hell, you've brought us a heretic," Kitos says. 

Aramis winces — 

"We take it all back, meneur," Reynard says, grinning and moving to kiss Aramis's cheeks — 

"I —" 

"You have the *best* taste in brothels." 

Aramis blinks rapidly — 

And Treville brings a finger to his lips. "Don't tell anyone, son, but we rather prefer the average heretic to the average churchman." 

"I — all right —" 

And Porthos squeezes his hand. 

Aramis looks to him — 

And Porthos nods reassuringly. 

Aramis *grins*. 

Porthos grins back and looks dangerously close to leaning in for a kiss — 

And Reynard presses two fingers to Aramis's chin and turns him back to face *him*. "Who taught you to shoot, mm?" 

Aramis blinks — and his entire countenance darkens. 

Porthos responds — undoubtedly to a large number of subtleties in Aramis's emotional state — by growling — 

And Reynard blinks and moves his fingers. "Oui? This is something we do not have to touch." 

"No — I. My father taught me. And then. I. He did not like that I wished to be a soldier. Once he knew this, I was not allowed to practice — I was only allowed to hunt." 

Kitos growls. "But you need to bloody practice if you're going to hunt *effectively*!" 

"I tried to tell him this! It is, ultimately, a waste of time and ammunition to send a boy hunting who has not practiced! So, I volunteered my services to other families who did not have hunters, and *did* have the money to buy ammunition. In return for letting me hone my skills, I would bring home meat for them, when I could," Aramis finishes... too lightly. 

Porthos is frowning again — 

"Son..." 

"I... do not wish to speak of what happened when my father found out what I was doing," Aramis says, and smiles tightly. "Though I will if I must." 

For a moment, shocking and new, Porthos's eyes glow a hot, wild, and *incandescently* enraged green, and his growl is just as flat and menacing as anyone could wish. 

But then Aramis gasps — 

And turns to look at him with *shock* — no, it's almost certainly the lack of recognition which shakes Porthos from... the power that had taken him. 

The power Treville can feel in his teeth, his ears, his balls — 

His ears are *ringing* — 

And Reynard is gripping his arm — Treville is their go-to person for events like this, and — 

And nothing, he has to be honest. "I have no idea what just happened to and/or *with* Porthos, save that it *probably* has something to do with the fact that a) he's coming into his power in general, b) he just had a *great* deal of sex with the young man he's madly in love with, c) he's spent his entire life sharing fluids with *me*, and d) he's really *very* upset about the fact that none of the people who have hurt Aramis are in *rending* distance." 

"Yes," Porthos says. "*Yes* —" 

"Beautiful Porthos, all is well! I *promise*!" And Aramis reaches up to cup Porthos's face with his free hand. "Be happy with me. Please be happy with me." 

Porthos gasps and sniffs Aramis's scalp, his throat, his ear — 

"Oh, Porthos —" 

"I... I can smell you better..." 

Kitos and Reynard *look* at him. 

"Oh... I wish to *bathe* —" 

"No, don't — not yet — *please* don't," Porthos says, and presses his nose *right* behind Aramis's ear. Good boy. "Oh, God, this is *amazing*." 

Aramis laughs helplessly as Porthos snuffles and sniffs — 

"Daddy, how do you ever *stop* doing this?" 

"I do godawful things with the smallclothes of everyone I love, son." 

"Oh, *fuck*," Porthos says, peeling off from Aramis and looking back toward his bedroom — 

"*Porthos*! Do not sniff my breeches when you can sniff me!" 

"What — oh. Right," he says, and grins broadly and just a little dreamily down at Aramis — 

Who is gazing with a curious kind of dazed wonder up at him. 

All right, then. Treville looks to Kitos and Reynard. 

"We will have to be a *little* careful, meneur."

"All eyes are on our boy anyway. He's too *good* at everything, and with people talking about him being the youngest man to ever earn a commission..."

Porthos blinks and focuses — "What? *Really*?" 

"It can't happen, yet, son. It *wasn't* going to happen until you were at least *nearly* sixteen, and now we might have to put it off for a little longer than that." 

"Oh, but *why*?" 

Because of this, and because of everything *you're* not aware happened to you and *around* you when you started thinking about Aramis's fuck-awful father.

Porthos rears back — 

Blinks thoughtfully — 

And then nods. (Yes, Daddy. I'll wait.) 

Perfect boy...

Porthos shivers — (Yours. Always.) And then *he* turns to Kitos and Reynard. "I understand now. I'll be patient."

Kitos grunts. "You and Fearless were just..." He waves a hand. "Communicating?" 

"Yes, Uncle."

This time, Reynard's look is vicious and barbed. 

Treville smiles ruefully. "It's always been available to us — you both know exactly how close I can *get* to a person once I have their blood — but..." 

Reynard takes a breath. "You needed him to have time to grow up alone in his mind." 

"Exactly."

Porthos laughs softly. "I would've loved to have you in me, Daddy. All those nights alone in my big bed after Maman died, and I couldn't *let* myself crawl in with you... it would've been nice to have your voice." 

And that — 

That hits like a blow from an unpadded *plank* — 

"Son..."

"I know — I understand why you *didn't* —" 

"You were lonely?"

Porthos swallows and lifts his chin — and nods. 

Treville moans — croons, really, and he can't — 

He won't. Not anymore. 

He moves to hold his son, to *grip* him *tightly* for all the times he hadn't, all the times he *could've* but *didn't* — 

(I forgive you, Daddy —) 

It's too quick — 

(I know you wouldn't have left me alone if you knew —) 

*Never* — 

(I know you would've stayed *with* me —) 

Every bloody *night* — 

And Porthos is sniffing at Treville's throat and moaning — 

Treville's face is *buried* in Porthos's curls — 

His scents are more complex, more *full*, even with so little time exposed to sex, to *lovemaking* —

"Everything is *right*, Daddy!" 

Yes — almost. And Treville pulls back, opens himself to his *brothers* — 

Kitos grunts — 

Reynard *gasps* — (Oui, meneur? What is it that you need?) 

To know that *you* have what you need. Both of you. 

And the warmth of Kitos's smile is, as ever, all-encompassing —

When Porthos feels it, he leans *in* — almost certainly instinctively — 

(Oh — homme puissante —) 

(Lad —) 

(Uncles — oh, Uncles, I can *feel* you!) 

(And... we can feel you,) Kitos says, wonderingly. 

(*All* of you,) Reynard says. (Oh, Porthos, you are... you are so *happy*...) 

(Yes! I am!) 

Kitos grunts. (Remind me to whack Fearless when we get out of here. He should've done this in the first place.) 

(Mais bien sûr.) 

And he's not truly saying that all the conversation that came before wasn't necessary, that they hadn't needed to talk these things out the standard ways — 

(*But*, meneur.) 

(Yeah. *But*. And you'll be taking Aramis's blood tout de suite, I take it? So we can all have this with him?) 

As soon as he agrees, yes. For now, he can share this moment with Porthos alone, and know that he's *wanted* as part of this family. Yes? 

(Fuck, yes.) 

(*Yes*.) 

(*Yes*, Daddy!) 

Good enough, Treville says, and pushes gently at the connections between them until they can pull away from each other comfortably — 

"You have to teach me how to *do* that, Daddy —" 

"There is *nothing* I won't teach you, son," Treville says, and turns to Aramis, who *looks* to be standing and observing quietly, but is actually still quite stunned inside. "All right, son?" 

Aramis opens his mouth — 

Closes it — 

"I..." He closes his mouth again, licks his lips, and spreads his hands before saying: "I have no words for what I'm feeling." 

"Do you have words for what you need?" 

"A. A quiet space. I think —" 

"Well, that's our cue, fox-face." 

"Ah, oui, I think so," Reynard says, and leans in to kiss Treville's ear. "Toujours." 

Treville growls. "*Toujours*." 

And then Reynard spins away with that broad-mouthed, sultry-smoky grin and presses himself to Kitos. "Mon verrat, I think you must gore me with your big, fat tusk tonight..."

"I *think* that can be arranged," Kitos says, saluting Treville casually as he and Reynard prowl away. 

And, when Treville turns back to Porthos and Aramis, Aramis is standing with a small smile on his face while Porthos alternately nuzzles and licks and nips his ear. 

"Humans are remarkably delicious there, as a rule," Treville says. 

Porthos moans and nods. He's focused at the moment. 

Treville turns to Aramis. "Can you tell me what sort of quiet you need, son?" 

Aramis opens his eyes — and reaches for him. "The sort with both of you, sir."

Treville sighs and takes Aramis's small, strong hand. "You'll only *need* to call me that in public, you know." 

Aramis flushes. "What do you wish to be called, sir?" And he tugs on *Treville's* hand, just a little — 

Treville grins — 

Aramis flushes more deeply — 

And Treville moves close to — his boys. His. Porthos's encouragement, his need for just *this*, is a flood in him, and — "You know I want to adopt you, son." 

Aramis takes a gulping breath and turns quite, quite red. "It is... very hard to think about that, sir," he says, and doesn't meet Treville's eyes. 

"Look at me," Treville says, quiet and firm. 

Aramis makes a small sound — but obeys immediately. 

"There you are. So determined. So brave. So *smart*." 

"I will — I will be all those things for you!" 

"You'll be all those things for *yourself*, Aramis. They'll help form the *backbone* of the soldier we're going to make out of you." 

"Oh — *please*!" 

Treville rumbles. "You see? It's what you want for yourself. It's what you want for your *identity*." 

"I want... I want everything you have *shown* me!" 

"And more?" 

"*Yes*! I — I do not wish to be *greedy*, but I must be *honest* —" 

"Never lie to us. *Never*." 

"I will *not*. I *belong* to Porthos — *ahn* —" 

And Porthos has bitten that wonderful spot behind Aramis's ear — Treville can't blame him — but. 

"Son..." 

Porthos growls hungrily — 

*Moans* — 

Aramis *whimpers* — 

Porthos *sucks* at the bruise he's left — 

And Treville presses his thumb to the corner of Porthos's mouth. Lightly — 

(Oh — *Daddy* —) 

Focus on me for a moment...

And Porthos's mouth is on Treville's thumb, just like that. 

"My hungry boy..." And Treville tugs until Porthos stands straight again — 

Until he nods and looks at Treville dreamily, sweetly — 

"It's hard to focus right now, isn't it." 

Another nod. 

"You can smell — and *feel* — that both Aramis and I are focused on sex right now — finally — and that's making you lose your mind a little. Isn't it." 

Another nod — and Porthos takes his thumb in to the knuckle, suckles and moans and — 

And Treville will not let them do *this* in the hall. 

Not their first time. 

He tugs his thumb free slowly — 

Porthos moans mournfully — 

Treville cups his face and pulls him close again. "Shh. Shh." 

"Daddy..." And Porthos noses in against Treville's throat. "Daddy, I *need* you. *Both* of you. My cock feels... different." 

And that's worth a laugh — or it is until Treville *thinks* about it. "Not just hard, son?" 

"No, Daddy. It feels..." And Porthos is shifting on his feet like he has to *piss*... and like it hurts more than a little. 

And Treville knows what this is. He — "Oh, son..." 

"Daddy, I —" 

"Shh, come on, let's get you both to bed." 

And Aramis looks a question into Treville's eyes — 

Come with me a little farther, little one... 

(He *will*, Daddy, he's so brave, he's so *perfect* —)

"Aloud. We'll do this aloud, until we can all hear each other." 

Aramis shivers again — "Thank you. I — I would like to... hear. You." And he flushes again. 

Treville *grips* Porthos and starts walking him down the hall, Aramis at their side. "You're *sure* about that." 

Aramis laughs softly. "You have not asked me if I were certain about very many things... Treville." 

Hmm. "Is *that* what you want to call me?" 

"I think. I think that I want to call you what I wish to call you... inside. First."

"Oh... son." 

Aramis smiles at him, sparkling and bright — 

So *lovely* — 

Treville rumbles and follows him into Porthos's bedroom — 

Porthos comes out of his daze for the changes in air currents, scents — 

He kisses Treville's throat, his chin, his jaw — 

He nips and sniffs and clutches — 

"Easy, son, almost —" 

"Need you, need — I feel —" 

"I know *exactly* what you're feeling, son. I've felt just the same," Treville says, and walks them to the bed, stops them beside it, and disentangles them just *enough* that he can strip his boy, his beautiful boy — 

"Daddy — please, Daddy —" 

"Soon, son, soon..." 

"What... he seems *distressed*," Aramis says, from the other side of the bed. 

"He is. His anatomy is changing — somewhat." 

Porthos moans, head rolling on his neck — he'll have a ruff, too, when he shifts. 

Aramis blinks — 

Moans softly — 

And *then* starts to strip himself. 

Treville laughs softly. "I like *that* reaction, son." 

"I —" Aramis laughs again. "*I* like the way you find it effortless to make me blush, Treville."

Treville laughs harder. "Do you, now." 

"Yes," Aramis says, quiet and matter-of-fact. "Will you tell me *how* Porthos is — oh." 

"Just so, son," Treville says, and cups Porthos's slowly-expanding knot as it throbs and pulses and — undoubtedly — aches. 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Shh. I've got you, son. When my knot was first growing I was just as needy as you are now." 

"Oh — oh. Yeah?" 

"*Oh*, yes," Treville says. "Come on, step out of those trousers — there you are. Now lie down for me... yes. Scoot over a little more... there's my good boy. I was hungry, son. My whole body ached, but it *seemed* to be centered right *here*," Treville says, and *squeezes* that knot — 

Porthos shouts and arches — "Yes! *Yes*!" 

"Oh, son. *My* son. I should've known you'd find a way to get even more beautiful." 

"I — I —" 

"The difference between *you* getting your knot and *me* getting *my* knot?" 

"Yes? Daddy, I — *please*." 

"The difference is that I'd no one to touch me then — and no *idea* how to *ask* —" 

"Oh, no!" 

"You'll never have that problem, son. I'll make sure of it — assuming you don't guarantee it yourself," Treville says, and turns to Aramis, who is kneeling on Porthos's other side. "Go on. It's all right." 

Aramis looks up to Porthos's face — 

And Porthos gives him the purest, most openly-*pleading* look — 

Aramis makes a guttural noise and cups Porthos's still-thick shaft — "*Oh* — so *hot*." 

"Is it — is it too —" 

"I want to feel this *inside* me!" 

Treville grins. "I think that's a good sign for both of us, son."

Porthos laughs explosively, nervously — 

Blushes like the boy he still *is* — Treville growls. "I'll tell you more about what's happening to your body in *just* a moment, but — 

And he lets himself pounce, lets himself pin his beautiful boy by those broad shoulders, lets himself *snarl* —

Just to *see* — 

And Porthos's eyes flare green even as he bares his *throat*. 

Oh. 

Oh, *son*. 

Treville licks him from his fuzzy chin to his temple — 

"Ah, *fuck* —" 

Then he does it again on the other side — 

"Daddy, *please* —" 

Then he kisses him, just kisses him, shares the taste of his needy sweat and the *feel* of Treville's lengthening tongue — 

Porthos *bucks* — 

"Oh — I wish — I wish to..." And Treville can feel Aramis's hand moving between them, moving on Porthos's cock so carefully, so *cautiously* — 

Porthos *whines* into Treville's mouth — 

Treville *fucks* his mouth with his tongue — 

Porthos sucks Treville's tongue and whines *more*, whines over and over, desperate and *needy* — 

"That *sound*..." 

Treville growls and pulls *back*, gripping Porthos's wrists when he reaches for him. "Almost, son," he says, and licks his lips — and just a bit of his face. 

Aramis gasps. 

Treville growls a *laugh*. "Just wait, son." To Porthos, he says: "You're going to spend *right* now. That will ease some of the desperation, and then we can explain a little bit more about what's going on. All right?" 

Porthos nods and nods and *arches* again, struggles to get into *contact* — 

Mm. 

Treville pulls back further, releasing Porthos's wrists and ignoring the whines so he can kneel between his thighs. "You see that his foreskin is thicker, Aramis, yes?" 

"Yes!" 

"It's becoming a sheath, and, while there's a large degree of sensitivity, still," Treville says, then nudges Aramis's hand away and *tugs* the pre-sheath back and back — 

"*Oh* —" 

"Look how beautiful he is. Look how swollen and red with rich blood..." 

"Do you want to *bite* him, Treville?" 

Treville laughs and *snaps* — 

Aramis gasps — 

"I want to bite you both absolutely everywhere. But I can restrain myself. Will you suck?" 

"Every day!" And Aramis drops and *gulps* Porthos in immediately — 

Porthos stiffens and *howls* — which gives Treville more than enough time to get a *good* grip on his boy and that still-growing knot — 

To pump it twice — 

Porthos howls again and does his level best to force his knot *and* Treville's fist into Aramis's mouth — 

Treville isn't *altogether* sure Aramis couldn't *take* that...

But that's a thought for another time. 

He massages Porthos's knot and keeps using his weight to hold Porthos down, marveling at the strength he's gained — 

The *power* — 

His perfect *boy* — and his perfect boy's perfect boy. 

Aramis is fucking his own mouth on Porthos's cock fast and *hard*, and — mm. 

"Have you noticed any differences in his taste, yet, son?"

Aramis nods without losing his rhythm even a little. 

Treville rumbles his approval. "Do you like them?" 

Aramis nods just a little more vigorously — and speeds up. —

Treville rumbles more. "You lovely boy. You'll do fine."

Aramis blushes *deeply* — 

"And every time you blush, son, I want to see what it takes to make you red all over. What it takes to make you whimper and strain and *scream*."

Aramis *stops* — and Porthos's cock *must* be lodged in his throat — groaning in his chest and drooling, open-mouthed, on Treville's hand. 

Porthos whimpers and shakes and *croons* — 

"There now, lovely boy, it's all right. You can keep going." 

Aramis groans *more* — 

Porthos's cock *spasms* — 

"You *will* keep going. Won't you." 

Aramis *keeps* groaning — but nods once, shuts his swollen mouth, and fucks himself *brutally* on Porthos's cock, bracing himself on Porthos's thigh and belly, gasping and humming, slurping and *working* himself — 

"There you are. Good boy." 

Aramis flushes hard, right down his chest and back. 

"You're making *my* knot *ache*, son," Treville says, and squeezes Porthos's knot *hard*. "Will you let me fuck you?" 

Aramis nods *vigorously* — 

And Porthos lets out a sound that might've *started* as a word, but it becomes a *snarling* howl by the time it makes it out of his mouth, by the time he's tensed all over and — spending — 

"*MM* —" 

"Take it all, son. Take every drop for me." 

Aramis gulps and nods and swallows and — reaches out to touch Porthos's knot. 

"Mm. Yes. *Do* help me milk your brother," Treville says, and *grins* as Aramis gets that much redder — and keeps swallowing. "You'll be there for a little while," he says, and arranges their hands just so. "We shifters spend just a *bit* more than human men."

Another groan — 

Porthos is tossing his head and *shaking* — 

And Treville can't help but growl. "When we knot you — your arse, that is — you'll be tied. You won't be able to go *anywhere* for a good half-hour — or more." 

Aramis's lashes flutter on his cheeks — 

"Plan accordingly," Treville says, and turns to give himself his Porthos's expression in *this* moment: 

He's still spending, but his body has taken over the work of trying to impregnate whatever hole his cock is in. His mind is starting to be his own again, and it is... wondering. 

Treville keeps milking him, more gently now, and waits... 

There, Porthos is focused on him again — and just a little stunned. 

Treville grins. "Son." 

"Daddy... I — oh — fuck. I'm still — how can I — why — *fuck* —" 

Aramis slurps and hums and gulps in a *very* timely manner. 

Porthos's eyes roll up for a moment — but *only* for a moment before he's groaning and un-clenching his fists from the sheets — and cupping Aramis's soft hair. Petting him. 

Aramis groans appreciatively — 

Porthos gasps a little — "Oh — oh. I think. I think.... I'm alive?" 

Treville laughs hard. "Yes, son, you made it." 

Aramis pulls off with a moan and sits on his heels, taking Porthos's hand in his own. "My Porthos feels... better?" 

And Porthos's smile is bright and wide and beautiful as he looks back and forth between them. "I — I wanted to suck *you* —" 

Aramis grins. "I have no objections..." 

Treville hums. "Don't you, son?"

Aramis blinks. "I —" 

"Wouldn't you rather spend... some other way?"

And Aramis flushes again. 

"Lovely," Treville says, and grins like the predator he will always, always be. 

"What? What am I *missing*?" And Porthos sits up on his elbows and frowns at them. "I can feel — and *smell* —"

"Your father likes to make me look like a *beet* —" 

"Your father wants to explore each and every one of Aramis's *deepest* desires," Treville says — and lets his tongue loll. 

Aramis makes a *choked* sound and — this is growing dangerously addictive — flushes even redder. 

Treville laughs evilly — and raises an eyebrow at Porthos, who is staring *fixedly* at Aramis. Mm. "Well, son? Thoughts?" 

"I think Aramis *wants* your tongue, Daddy. Or... something else —" 

Treville sucks his teeth like Reynard. "Trust your *instincts*, son." 

"No, I — Aramis has been... teasing. And *not* teasing. About me fucking him." 

Treville grins again and looks to their red little boy. "Has he, now. More than I've seen...?"

"Yes, Daddy. I — I want it, too —" 

"You'll *get* it." 

Porthos — croons, not moans. And looks very surprised at having done it. 

Treville smiles wryly and keeps warming that beautiful knot. "That's one of the things you'll have to be careful about, son. The more you lose control of the man — *however* you lose control of the man — the more the dog will come out." 

"But — you don't *seem* all controlled all the time, Daddy." 

"I know I don't, son, and, in truth, I'm holding myself on the lightest possible lead, because any heavier would make me feel like half a man — and I couldn't do that to myself *or* my family." 

"No, don't!" 

Treville inclines his head. "*But*. While I was *learning*? I kept a heavier lead on." 

"Oh — oh." 

"I kept bloody *chains* on, sometimes." 

Porthos winces. 

"Don't worry, son — we'll all be here for you to take those chains off around sometimes. I promise." 

And Aramis lifts Porthos's hand to his mouth and kisses it soft and sweet. "I promise, as well. My beautiful Porthos need never hold himself back around me." 

Porthos gives Aramis a needy-hopeful-*adoring* look — 

Aramis makes a small sound and shuffles closer — 

"Oh — yeah —" And Porthos pushes his hand into Aramis's mussed hair, grips *fascinatingly* tightly — 

Aramis smiles *blissfully* — 

And Treville is the evil bastard who stops them. "One moment, boys." 

"Mm? Wha...?" 

Aramis blinks his eyes open mid-lean — "What?"

And Treville laughs hard. "You're both desperately adorable. Reynard and I are going to have a disgusting amount of fun catching you both out at the garrison and giving you *awful* punishment details." 

Porthos blushes and smiles ruefully. "Probably, yeah." 

Aramis looks like he wants to *protest* — 

Treville *looks* at him — 

Aramis looks at Porthos — and sighs. "I will be punished most harshly. And deserve it. And dream of earning still more punishments while I work off the first."

"That's *right*," Treville says — 

And Porthos beams and — starts massaging Aramis's scalp, Treville would wager, just going by the egregiously stupid look on Aramis's face. 

Treville snorts. "Porthos." 

"Just. I *have* to. His scalp is all sweaty. Probably itchy, a little." 

Aramis moans. "My Porthos *does* wish to enslave his Aramis utterly. He really could've just said." 

Well, then. "That's the way to do it, Aramis? Pet and rub you all over at all times?" 

"I — I — mm?" 

"Answer the question, brother," Porthos says, with no little natural force — 

And Aramis reddens up just right. "Yes, Porthos. I love being touched, but only by people I like very much. I am... starved, much of the time. Even though... well." 

Porthos growls and massages other parts of Aramis's scalp. "And Hercule touched you too *gently*," he says, with the air of someone firming a point. 

Aramis shivers. "It was a little — sometimes, I think, he couldn't bear to hurt the boy he loved very much, even though I told him I wanted that very thing."

Porthos frowns. "I don't. I don't understand that." 

"I think your Daddy does, beautiful Porthos," Aramis says, and nods to him. 

"Oh —" Porthos turns — 

And Treville hums and strokes over Porthos's knot with his thumb — 

"*Ahn* —" 

"I like your dominance style, son. Very respectful and easy, calm, loving — just the way it should be for a boy like you." 

"Oh — thank you, Daddy. When — when is my knot going to stop —" 

"Hours, yet." 

"Oh, God —" 

"But in answer to your other question — Hercule is an older man who has forgotten what it's like to be a younger man — to a certain extent. He remembers running off to join the Army when he was a boy, but he's forgotten that he was old enough to make more than a few decisions about his life and how he was to be treated back then." 

"People *forget* that?" 

"All the time, son," Treville says, and strokes Porthos's long, muscular thigh with his other hand. "You don't see it so much, because the vast majority of the adults you're exposed to on a day-to-day basis are your family and the men you're either meeting as an equal or near-equal or *besting* on the practice fields. You're also *physically* large, so that's another way people can't condescend to you. You're also *gentry*... do you see?" 

Porthos frowns hard — and nods. "I have to look after the other boys, more. Make sure people aren't running over them." 

And that's his first response to all of that. Treville shivers internally and swallows. "My boy..." 

"Daddy?" 

Treville shakes his head and smiles. "I just love you son. Everything about you." 

Porthos pinkens up for that and ducks his head — 

"Ah, I see our Treville enjoys making *you* into a beet, as well," Aramis says, and strokes Porthos's cheeks — 

Gets his fingertips *kissed* — 

Suckled —

Aramis moans, cock twitching — 

"You *do* enjoy Porthos's mouth," Treville says, and — yes, the next lesson can be here. It's about time for it. 

"Oh — very much. Very *much*," Aramis says, and laughs wildly. "When he... when he made love to me with his *mouth*..." And Aramis laughs more and shakes his *head* — 

Porthos opens his eyes and *studies* Aramis as he takes his fingers deeper. 

"He ate you alive." 

"Yes! Oh, *yes*. So — he was not hesitant, or — or *shy*," Aramis says, and flushes more, nipples hardening. "I have never wanted to be fucked more in my *life*, but I had to *quiet* myself, because I *needed* him to keep using his wonderful *mouth*!" 

Porthos's cock jerks and stiffens and *lifts* — the tip has started growing just a little pointier. Not that he'd gotten soft. Mm. Good boy. 

"He's going to get better at that, you know." 

Aramis laughs *breathlessly*. "It's not that I don't *believe* you, Treville —" 

"No? Then what?" 

"I — I fear for my sanity!" 

"You're a smart little boy, Aramis. Porthos, stretch your tongue." 

"Mm?" 

"Go on. Aramis, take those lovely fingers away for just a moment." 

"Yes, Treville —" 

And Porthos sits back up on both elbows, sticks his tongue out — 

And his whole muzzle shifts. He yips in shock, eyes wide and rolling —

"*Oh*!" 

"It's all right, boys. This is not unexpected," Treville says, and very carefully does *not* move either of his hands in any way. "Breathe deep, son. Get yourself accustomed to all the scents." 

"Daddyyyy..." 

"Shh, don't try to talk. Just breathe." 

Porthos nods, licking at his dark — and surprisingly square-ish, considering how hound-like Treville's is — muzzle and focusing — 

Panting — 

Crooning — 

Dripping faintly-sweet and *deeply* musky-smelling slick from his cock more and more rapidly — 

Aramis moans — 

"Shh, Aramis. He needs our control, too, right now." 

"Oh — yes, Treville!" 

And Porthos croons more — 

"Breathe, son. Breathe for me." 

Porthos moves on the bed — tries to wag. 

"Stay still. Nod when you want to agree." 

Porthos nods, awkward with the way his head has a different center of gravity, and keeps breathing — 

"Good boy, beautiful boy, keep going..." 

Porthos nods and obeys. 

"Good. Now I'm going to count down from five. When I get to zero, you'll slow your breathing down for me as much as you can. You *won't* try to force it slower than that. All right?" 

Porthos nods again and keeps breathing, letting his eyes slip most of the way closed. 

"Good boy. Five... four... three... two... one... zero."

And Porthos slows down — 

And slows down — 

And shifts back to *human*-form — 

And *yips* again — 

And *immediately* stretches his tongue out long and perfect, grinning doggy and wide. 

Treville grins back. "There's my *boy*. Now, you're going to sound *ridiculous* if you try to talk with that, so why don't you pull it back a bit?" 

Porthos looks completely lost. 

Treville laughs hard. "Yes, I know. I felt the *same*. But, I focused on... putting the dog in the kennels. *Imagining* that in great detail. All the little steps of clipping on the collar, and the lead, walking him back to his special place, making sure that place was *secure*..." And he raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos nods and obviously thinks about it — 

And Aramis stares at that tongue with naked lust. Hm. That could be problematically *distracting* — 

But no, Porthos manages to get his tongue most of the way pulled in. 

"All right, son?" 

Porthos nods, and — "I think — bleh — ish — ith thtill — it's still *hard* — to talk. *Bleh*," he says, and laughs. "How d'you *manage*? I've shtill got a lithp!" 

"That you do, son, and you will until you practice — with whatever length of tongue you choose — for *many*, *many* hours." 

"*Oh*. Really?" 

"Oh, yes." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully — and then flares his nostrils and turns back to Aramis. "Tell me what you're thinking." 

Aramis gasps a little — and grins. "Porthos..." 

Porthos grins back. "Go on, tell me." 

Aramis flushes again — 

"You're such a lovely boy, Aramis," Treville says. 

Aramis inhales sharply. "Thank you, Treville, I —" 

"Shh. Answer Porthos." 

"Yes, Treville," he says, and turns to Porthos. "I was thinking... a kennel with no bitch must be very lonely..." 

Porthos *grunts* — and growls, low and heavy and dark, as he starts to turn over even with Treville still between his *legs*. 

Treville can't blame him one bit — *but*. He squeezes Porthos's knot to tear his attention from their little joy. "To me, Porthos." 

"Daddy, fuck —"

"Shh. I'm going to show you *exactly* how to mount your boy, and then I'm going to mount *you* —" 

"Oh, *please*!" 

"I thought you'd like that idea. But this is going to be difficult, in some ways, for both of you — even though I *will* make sure you enjoy yourselves *immensely* —" 

"Please. *Please*," Aramis says, licking his lips and stroking down over his lean chest and belly. 

"Aramis, yes, come here," Treville says, and beckons with the hand he'd had on Porthos's thigh. 

"Yes, Treville —" 

"Where do you want me to mark you, mm? Where do you want me to *connect* all of us so that we can all be absolutely certain who needs what *when*?" 

"*Oh*. I — I have to be able to *train*, as much as possible, as fast as possible. I do not know what's best for that!" 

Treville grins. "Good boy. I *do* know, but I *also* know that any bites I give you I can also heal to scars right away. So it's really more of an aesthetic question, son." 

"No... not that," he says, and turns to Porthos. "My beautiful Porthos, who says my scars are a part of me —" 

"They *are*," Porthos growls — 

"They truly are, son," Treville says, and strokes his hardest thumb-callus over the scars on Aramis's hip. 

Aramis shivers — 

"I look forward to *riding* these with my cock someday..." 

Aramis *grunts*. "S-sir —" 

"I look forward to *painting* them with my spend and then *biting* them clean. I look forward to being *taught* which of them you earned for your calluses and which of them you earned for your *knowledge*. I look forward to *cherishing* them the way I cherish *every* badge of *honour* my loves earn." 

Aramis *stares* at him, wide-eyed and wondering.

Treville nods once. "Part of taking a new name, son, part of becoming a new *man*? Is learning new ways to *think*." 

Aramis takes a shuddering breath. "I am. I have only been accustomed to new ways of thinking being... false. And base. And — *wrong*." 

Treville shows his teeth. "Those weren't new ways of *thinking*, son. Those were new ways of dousing the fire of your mind with piss and *ashes*. *We* will never make you turn your beautiful mind *away* from new knowledge. We will never *stifle* you. We *want* your brilliance, and your excellence, and your *fire*. And we will *have* it." 

Aramis moans *loudly* — "Yes — *yes*, sir!" 

"Now. Where should I *mark* you?" 

"Please! I would like Porthos to choose!" 

And Porthos sits up and *clutches* Aramis, holds him, laps at his ear and face with his half-shifted tongue — 

"Yes — yes, please — *mm* —" 

And Treville lets the kiss happen this time — he may be an evil bastard, but he's not a monster. Porthos takes Aramis's mouth *hard*, devours it as they both moan, and Aramis turns into it, gives himself to it, pushes his hands into Porthos's curls and starts massaging *his* scalp — 

Porthos growls and pulls back — 

"No? Not that?"

"*Yes*, that, but I want — I want *everything* — oh, *Aramis*," Porthos says, still lisping a little, and licks Aramis's chin, and his throat — 

Bites — 

Bites *hard* — 

"*Yes*!

And Porthos *holds* the bite for a long moment before pulling back. "I want you to sound like that when Daddy bites you. I want you to be *hot* when he does it. Tell me where that'll happen that won't be as obvious as two big bite scars on your pretty throat." 

Aramis pants and reaches up to *stroke* his own throat with shaking hands — 

*Both* Porthos and Treville narrow their eyes — 

"Oh — oh, I want to be *fucked* —" 

"Mounted, love. *Mounted*," Porthos says, and pants a little. "This first." 

Aramis *whimpers* — "Yes, Porthos, yes — I — I am sensitive here," he says, kneeling up and stroking the bowls of his slim hips. 

Porthos growls — and taps Aramis's right hip. "Here, Daddy." 

"Thank you both *very* much," Treville growls, lengthening and sharpening his teeth — 

"*Oh*." 

"Jussst a moment," Treville says. "I'm being inefficient." And he moves to strip down at speed, grateful for every unfortunate and desperately uncomfortable moment that taught him how. 

His breeches are slick beyond the telling of it — hm. He doesn't toss them too far from the bed. Knowing how these things work, his Porthos might want them later, even if Treville *does* stay. 

Once he's naked, he crawls onto the bed on Aramis's other side — "I *vastly* appreciate that look on your face, son," he says — 

"My. My Treville is beautiful," Aramis says, and looks up to see if that will be accepted — 

Treville grins. "Your Treville thinks you've taken a blow to the head at some point —" 

"*Daddy* —" 

Treville laughs and *yanks* Aramis close — "Lovely boy... I've been craving this for hours." 

Another pink flush — 

Treville rumbles — 

And Aramis walks his slim fingers up Treville's chest to his chin — and pauses — 

"Yes, son?" 

"Your Aramis thinks that you should learn to be loved as well as you teach your boys to be." And he *looks* at Treville with those yellow-brown eyes and — 

Treville rumbles. "Should I, now." 

Aramis inclines his head. 

"Mm. Laurent — and Kitos, and Reynard — have offered this same opinion more than once —" 

"You should *listen*, Daddy!" 

"Certainly, Amina wasn't above beating it into me with broom-handles —" 

Porthos splutters — 

But Aramis is a little more solemn than that. 

He can, perhaps, sense a little darkness here. Treville nuzzles him, kisses him softly, lets him *feel* the teeth that will be piercing him very, very soon... 

Aramis shivers and licks out to trace Treville's lips, to seek entrance into his mouth — 

"Oh — fuck, that's so *hot* —" 

"Agreed," Treville says, and urges Aramis's tongue *in*. "Careful." 

"Yes, Treville," he says, and *very* carefully traces Treville's sharp teeth — 

Kisses them and sucks Treville's lips — 

Treville pants out a slow, hot, hungry growl — 

And Aramis pulls back with a peck. "Please bite me." 

Treville growls more, louder and *flatter*, letting his own eyes flare and glow — 

"Oh..."

And then he *puts* Aramis on his back — 

"Oh, God!" 

And rolls him onto his left side — 

"Please —"

And sniffs and nuzzles and *nips* at Aramis's hip, licks and *tastes* him, delicious boy, beautiful boy, delicious *boy* — 

"Oh, please, *please* —" 

"Almost, love —" 

"I —" 

And then Treville grips tightly to either side of Aramis's hip and bites *down* — 

Bites *hard* — 

So — 

Aramis *wails*, cock jerking and spattering Treville's cheek — 

"Oh, love — oh, love, everything about you is *perfect*," Porthos says, and Treville has to agree. The tastes of him — 

His rich and sweet and *iron* blood — 

Treville laps and laps and *laps* — 

Takes more — 

*More* — 

Breaks the bite and shifts his teeth back to human, laps to *heal* — 

To taste more — 

To *heal* — 

And — 

Aramis...

(I you you — please!) 

Treville smiles and *sucks* the silvery tracks of the new scars criss-crossing the old. What do you want to call me, son?

(Please, is is Porthos? Here? He must see he must hear!) 

And really, Aramis saying his name in this space *should* be enough — there. 

(Daddy? Aramis?) 

(Porthos! I! Am I here? Are we all? Here?) 

Porthos does his best to enfold Aramis spiritually —

(Oh so warm, so warm — I love you, my Porthos!) 

(I *feel* it. You're so — I love *you*, Aramis.) And then...

And then they turn their light on Treville, who has never felt more doggy, more dark and animalistic, more a thing of *selfish* needs —

(*Daddy* — ) 

(Daddy....)

Treville *grunts* — and focuses.

Porthos is holding Aramis's upper body in his strong arms and grinning wide while Aramis bites his lip and looks cautiously down the length of his own body at *him*. 

"I... I know that it is different for a man to call a boy 'son' than it is for that boy to call that man 'Daddy' —" 

"*Son*. Not to me. Not for you." 

Aramis makes a hungry noise — 

"Say it again, son. Let me hear it aloud." 

"Oh — Daddy... it was not — it was not better the other way?" 

Treville licks his lips, *kisses* Aramis's hip — 

"Oh — oh, and you made my scars *better* — please, both of you, do this for *all* of them!" 

Porthos pants — "Yeah. Yeah, I will," he says, and licks Aramis's cheek. 

"I will do so *happily*, son," Treville says, and strokes over Aramis's hip and arse. "And it was beautiful inside me. *Meant*." 

"Yes! *Yes*! You are already so much more than — than Julián *Ortiz's* father!" 

So that's what his Christian name — no. Aramis wouldn't think of it that way, and it isn't his *real* name by any stretch of the imagination. And — "I like hearing it, son. In *every* way." 

"My Daddy..." And Aramis flushes so *dark* — 

Licks his swollen pink *lips* — 

"My Daddy likes *being* a Daddy..." 

"Your Daddy *loves* being a Daddy. Your Daddy was heartbroken every time Amina *accidentally* said something that *vaguely* sounded like she didn't intend Porthos to be mine." 

Porthos moans. "I'm yours, I'm *always* yours —" 

Treville growls. "Yes, you *are*. I'll never let you go —" 

"Please —" 

"Not either of you." 

Aramis whimpers. "Daddy —" 

"Let me taste you, little one. Let me have your perfect little arse for just a little while." 

Aramis *grunts* — and looks to Porthos, who licks his lips. 

"Daddy should have a turn, I think, love. Daddy should get to see what's been driving me *mad*." 

"Oh — oh, I want to give both of you everything you *want*! Right *now*!" 

Porthos growls. "I want to make you spend all *night*." 

"I want to make *both* of you spend all night," Treville says — 

Aramis moans and wriggles out of Porthos's arms — 

"Hey —" 

But all he does is — present, head down and arse up and — 

Porthos starts to shift, much further than he'd gone before —

Treville *snarls* — 

And Porthos stops, just like that. 

"Good boy, son. Stay right there." 

Porthos whines in protest, drips drool from his fully-shifted muzzle — and his dog's head is *very* blunt, very square. The ruff is negligible — 

He's so *deep-chested* — 

So *beautiful* — 

The waves of his black fur look so soft, so *grippable* and *soft* — 

His paws are *massive* — he's going to get even *bigger* — 

And Treville needs to focus, to — he growls and gives himself a shake — 

Porthos is *trembling* as he whines — 

"Oh, son. Oh, son, you know I'm not angry with you. You *know* I wouldn't punish you. Not like this. Not ever like this." 

Porthos looks up at him with those shining green eyes — 

So wide and hungry — 

So *needy* — 

"My boy is so beautiful. But *our* boy isn't ready for you. Not like that. He needs your hands, for one, and your human control —" 

Porthos whines more — 

"I know, son. Aramis is perfect like that. *Achingly* beautiful. He *looks* ready — but he isn't. He needs oil. *Oil*. You remember that, don't you?" 

Porthos paws at the bed once — 

Twice — 

And sends them both images of himself, in human form, fucking himself *hard* with slick fingers — 

Moaning for his *Daddy* — 

Treville *snarls* again — no, no — "Son. Son, that's good. That's... mm. But you have to put the dog back in the kennel for now. The dog has to wait." 

Porthos croons — 

Shakes himself — 

Stares *hard* at Aramis, who is panting with his forehead *pressed* to the sheets — 

His scents are *hungrily* apologetic — 

And then Porthos starts breathing evenly. 

"That's it, son. That's just perfect. My good boy. My beautiful, *beautiful* boy..." 

Porthos *pants* — and shifts, seeming to almost *pull* himself away from the dog. 

"A little more, son. Just a little more —" 

"Daddy — fffuck, *Daddy* —" 

"It's all right, you're all right, son..."

And, when Porthos is completely human again, he's slumped on his hands and knees and shaking. 

"Oh, son... I know that was hard." 

"I just — I just... my body just *reacted* when Aramis did that —" 

"I apologize! I am so sorry! I did not mean to —" 

"Shh, son, it's all right," Treville says, moving up the bed and pulling Aramis back into his arms — "We both know you only wanted to make things even better for us." 

"*Yes* —" 

"Shh, shh," Treville says, and kisses Aramis's temple, then looks up at his Porthos. "Can you come closer, yet, son? Touch *will* make it easier." 

"It. It. Yeah? It feels like I'll lose control again *immediately*." 

"I know. It's an illusion. I can feel you — you're holding yourself *tightly*. Aramis can probably feel the same. Can't you, son?" 

"I... I'm not certain..." 

"What *do* you feel when you reach for Porthos, hm?" 

"*Strain*. He is — he is working so *hard*. He shouldn't — I'm so *sorry* —" 

Treville squeezes him tighter. "Shh, it's all right, son. You feel him holding onto himself. There *will* be times when he needs to use that much control — most of them will involve you being hurt, I suspect — but this isn't one of them," he says, and raises an eyebrow at Porthos. 

Porthos inhales shakily and nods, relaxing by increments. 

A little more — 

A little more... 

And, when he's released about half of his *lead* on himself, his ears twitch hard and he growls. "That — that's as far —" 

"That's good, son. How do you feel?" 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. "Better, Daddy. I want —"

"Come here." 

"— that," he says, and grins, shuffling close on his knees and making the hug that much better.

Making it perfect. 

Aramis makes small, hungry noises, every time they lick his temples — 

His ears — 

They squeeze him tighter, cup his arse — 

"Mm —" 

And they can both smell that that wasn't a no, but Treville slows — not stills — Porthos's hand just the same, and they kiss and lick Aramis more. 

Kiss his eyelids — 

Taste the salt from his worried tears — 

Good boy, loving boy... 

Pet him and stroke him, firmly, slowly — 

*Ease* him until he sighs for them, moans — 

"Porthos — Daddy —" 

Treville kisses his sweet mouth, but only briefly — 

"Please, Daddy —" 

"I want your sounds in the air, little one," Treville says, and licks the corner of Aramis's mouth — 

"Oh —"

Kisses down to his throat — 

Porthos is making love to Aramis's ear again — 

And here is the bite-scar Porthos had left. Here... mm. 

He'd cut off Aramis's air. Treville won't do that, but he has to feel — 

To walk in his son's footsteps, for just a moment — 

He *bites* — 

Aramis *gasps* — 

"Oh, Daddy..." 

Treville growls around his mouthful — 

Aramis shudders and groans, *clutches* at him with the hand he's not using to hold Porthos — 

And Treville guides Porthos's fingers to Aramis's cleft, urges him to rub, to stroke, to *tease* — 

"Unh — nuh — *please*!" 

Treville bites a *little* harder... 

"Oh, *please*!" 

And then he pulls back. 

"Daddy —" 

He kisses Aramis again, making it hard, making it hot, making it *vicious* as he rubs at Aramis's hard nipple with his thumb-callus — 

Aramis throws one arm around Treville's neck and surrenders to it, pushes *back* against Porthos's fingers, arches his chest — 

Perfect boy... 

(I am yours! Please, both of you, do what you *will*!) 

And Porthos growls *needily* — 

They can *all* feel him *instinctively* reaching for more control as what he has begins to *fray* — 

Treville sucks Aramis's lips and pulls back. "Sons. I think we should — for now — stick to the basics. We're all agreed that we want absolutely *everything* —" 

"Yes —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"— and the best way to get that is one step at a time. Get your oil, son." 

"*Yes*, Daddy!" 

Treville rumbles and nuzzles Aramis, who is wide-eyed and *hungry*. "You're ready?" 

"Please. *Please*." 

"Remember, little one — you can stop us at any time." 

"Yes, Daddy, I will — I will remember," Aramis says, nodding and — Treville would wager three times his price on this — *vowing* not to stop them for anything. 

Treville grips his chin hard.

"Nnh — Daddy?" 

"Remember, son. The more pleasure you take — and the less *discomfort* you take — the more pleasure *we* take."

"I — I — you know I *like* some pain —" 

"*Some* pain, not all. Teach us the differences."

Aramis flushes again — and turns to kiss Treville's fingertips. "Yes, Daddy." 

Treville smiles. "Good boy. Now get into position — *don't* lower your head." 

"It — it's too much?" And he turns to Porthos, who's holding the pot of oil Treville has personally refilled three times — with *great* pride — this year. 

Porthos pants — and his tongue lolls. "Oh — fugh —"

Aramis tugs himself away from Treville and licks Porthos's shifted tongue, kisses it, *sucks* — 

Porthos rumbles what sounds like helplessly and licks Aramis all over his face — 

And Aramis... giggles like a child, cupping Porthos's face and not trying to stop him for even a moment. 

*That* demands a large amount of experimentation — especially when Porthos starts licking *Treville's* saliva off Aramis's *throat*, and the giggles are well-threaded with hungry moans. 

"Mm. Son, those sounds are perfectly maddening." 

"I — mm — yes? Yes?" And he giggles more, offers Porthos more of his throat *to* lick — 

"Anyone would want your happiness." 

"Oh, Daddy — mmm — oh!" 

And Porthos is lifting him, lapping at his nipples — 

Aramis is *groaning* — 

All right, they can get a *little* excessive. 

Treville helps Porthos hold Aramis up — 

Pushes him *higher* — 

"*Ahn* — *AHN* —" 

And *that* is the sound of a shifted tongue on a *very* hard cock. 

This, on the other hand... 

"My GOD!" 

... is the sound of a shifted tongue in a thankfully not-at-all-virginal arse. Treville laughs as he fucks their boy, their musky-sweet little boy — 

"My — my — UNH — *UNH*!" 

Porthos groans and growls and laps and *suckles*, messy and *raw* — 

"Ah — *please* —!" 

Porthos moans and *slurps* — 

Treville does the *same* — 

Aramis shudders and *screams* — 

Porthos digs in *harder* with his fingertips under Treville's hands, groans and sucks Aramis's *bollocks* — 

"Nuh — I — please please —" And Aramis is gripping at both them, almost *pawing* at both of them, spasmodic and needy — 

Treville lengthens his tongue just a little bit more... 

And Aramis *wails*, desperate and high and *young*, so *young* — 

Porthos bucks at nothing and *groans* around Aramis's bollocks — 

Treville *flicks* his tongue just a little, just a *little* — 

Aramis wails *again*, kicks, curls his toes and *clenches* around Treville's tongue, clenches over and over — 

Oh — 

(Son, he's about to —) 

(I. *Know*,) Porthos says, releasing Aramis's bollocks and swallowing his cock — 

Aramis *chokes* on his wail, flexes open, and clenches hard as he begins to spend, just like that, just — 

Oh, sons, oh, sons...

Treville *sucks* hard kisses to that flexing hole, licks and fucks it while Aramis sobs and *yanks* at his hair — 

Spends in Porthos's hungry mouth — 

(Share the *taste*, son —) 

(Daddy, *yes*!) 

And then they're all *flooded* with musk, heat, that sweet-salt-bitter *rush* of a boy on the cusp of manhood, a boy so delicious, so perfectly *delicious* — 

Treville sucks *harder* — 

"Oh, *GOD*! I!" And Aramis shudders all over — 

Spurts still more — 

Porthos groans and swallows greedily — 

Good boys, good *boys* — 

And then Aramis slumps, whimpering and aching — 

But for what, exactly? Does he need rest? 

Treville noses at his spirit lightly *while* slowly withdrawing his shifted tongue — 

Urges Porthos to gentle his touches for a moment — 

(No, no, you must fuck me, you both must fuck me, or at least one of you, or —) 

And there is wild, bright laughter filling all of them — 

Aramis is so *pleased* — 

(How could I be anything *else*, Daddy? *How*?) 

And put that way...

Treville growls and *hauls* Aramis away from Porthos — 

"*Oi*, Daddy —" 

— and puts him on his hands and knees — 

Aramis giggles and *lifts* his head *up* — 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy, I still want to be a dog right now *really* badly." 

"No, you don't, son," Treville says, and moves to one side of Aramis. 

"I really do!" 

"No, you don't, and I'm going to tell you why: dogs do not have long fingers they can use to stretch Aramis *wide* for their knots." 

"Oh... shit." 

"Yes." 

"Shit, I —" And Porthos scrabbles for the pot of oil he'd dropped, slicks his *hand*, and moves round behind Aramis. "Tell me what to *do*."

Treville moves closer because — he has to. Nips his boy's ear. "Tell me how you do yourself first, son. Show us again. Show us the *beginning*." 

"I — uh." And Porthos licks his plush pink lips and concentrates — and shows them images of himself drawing one knee back to his chest — 

Reaching down to rub all the way round his hole *carefully* — Treville and his brothers had decided between them, when they'd seen how Porthos's cock was growing (and growing, and *growing*), to let Kitos give him the part of the talk about sex which involved *lubrication* and *care* — 

Wincing with lust as the fantasy takes him: Treville teasing him with his unseen cock, rubbing Porthos's hole just the way Porthos is rubbing it with his fingers. 

Treville nips Porthos's ear again. "I will, son. I *will*." 

"Daddy, please —" 

"Shh. Show me how you push in. Show it to me without the fantasies of me doing it, so Aramis and I can see clearly." 

"Yes, Daddy, all right," Porthos says, swallowing and rubbing Aramis's arse and hip restlessly with his dry hand. 

After a moment, they can all see Porthos's tongue slipping out between his teeth in the memory as he concentrates — 

As he pushes in with *two* thick fingers — 

"Wait right there, son." 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

"Do you always start with two?" 

"Um — now I do. I've been, you know. Stretching myself for a little while." 

Treville's knot *throbs* — "Oh, son. You make me happy every moment of every day." 

Porthos grins slyly. "I have *seen* your cock, Daddy." 

"Of course you have," Treville says, sighing and cupping Aramis's other's arsecheek. He gives it a *soft* squeeze. "Son." 

"Yes, Daddy?" And Aramis sounds eager and cautious at once — hm. 

"Are you worried about making a mistake, little one?" 

"I already *have*, Daddy! I don't want to make *more*."

"Oh, son, no, no," Treville says, and squeezes Aramis's hip. "You have to expect mishaps in any new relationship. But a new relationship with a witch-shifter just coming into his power, a young boy embarking on a *completely* new chapter of his life, and an older man proceeding to *thoroughly* molest his sons —" 

Porthos grunts — 

Aramis coughs — 

"— is going to have more than just a *few* hiccoughs. You — *we* — are all doing remarkably well. Do you see?"

"I... I must learn to think in *new* ways," Aramis says, and sounds a lot more confident. Good. 

"Precisely." 

"What were you going to ask me before? If I could start with two fingers? I can! Though slowly would be better for fingers Porthos's size." 

"Would it *please* you?" 

Aramis moans. "My Porthos will be opening me for his *cock*, Daddy. I need that. I *need* that." 

Treville rumbles. "Yes, you do," he says, and spreads Aramis for Porthos. "Go on, son."


	9. About those urges...

Aramis moans for the feel of Daddy's hard, hard hands on his arse — 

For the feel of being *spread* — 

"Do you like that feeling, son?" And Daddy is honestly curious on top of working to tease, to arouse — 

Daddy wants to *know* him as much as *Porthos* does!

And a part of Aramis can only wonder if he'd be able to *feel* it, feel the *care* in it, if Daddy were to bite a little deeper, if he were to scar him a little more severely, take more *blood* — 

Oh — Porthos is growling again — 

(Yes, son, you have to be careful with the run of your thoughts, at times,) Daddy says, and caresses Aramis all through himself — 

Please — 

(Shh. I can't make you feel us the way Porthos does. That's power that, as far as I know, can't be shared. But I can care for you every day we're together, and I will.)

Aramis moans and — doesn't lower his head — 

"Thank you for that," Porthos says, and strokes Aramis's lower back, soothes and warms — 

"I will be *good* for you, Porthos! For you both!" 

"You always are, love. You..." Porthos growls. "I want to have you for hours. *Days*." 

Aramis can't help but laugh. "You will keep your Aramis tied that long, beautiful Porthos? I think we will have some few difficulties if you do..." 

"True," Porthos says, "but we'd have them *together* —" 

"Daddy! You have raised your boy to have a most tender heart! What will happen when his Aramis is too cynical and cold?" And if this is a real fear — 

If this is something that truly *does* put ice in Aramis's heart — 

Porthos croons questioningly and rubs more firmly, more warmly — 

He can always feel — 

(Of course I can always feel you; you're my love. And I'll *never* leave you.) 

Oh — 

(And *we'll* always find one way or another to warm your heart, lovely boy,) Daddy says, and rumbles, inside and out — 

Aramis shivers and lifts his arse helplessly — 

"Oh, son. I know something about cold that worms its way inside you. I know how it can make you feel *apart* from the people you *least* want to *be* apart from." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"Shh," Daddy says, and strokes Aramis's arse with his thumbs — 

"Mm — yes. I will be silent!" 

"Just for a moment, little one," Daddy says, and, to Porthos: "Son, start *massaging* Aramis's cleft with the oil. Warm him with that." 

Aramis moans — 

*Porthos* moans — 

And the oil is warm going on — Porthos has warmed it on his fingers! But of course he'd know how. Of course he'd know *everything* — 

And the feel of him massaging Aramis's cleft — 

Rubbing him so gently — 

So firmly, and, yes, *warmly* — 

*Aramis* croons — 

"Ah — *fuck*, that sound —" 

"Everything about him is lovely," Daddy says, pleased and *prideful* — 

"*Yes*."

Aramis feels himself *flush* more — 

He must not duck his *head* — 

"That's right, son. Good boy." 

Aramis moans —

"And just this one thing," Daddy says, and strokes him more with his thumbs. "I *know* what it's like to feel drawn apart from my loves. To feel too cold and hard and *dark* for them." 

"Yes. *Yes* — oh — please don't stop!" 

"You heard him, Porthos." 

"I'll hear him in my *dreams*," Porthos says, and starts massaging Aramis's *hole* — 

Aramis *groans* — 

Lowers his head — 

Porthos *growls* — 

Aramis *snaps* his head up — 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and, "I'll never let you get too far, son." 

"Oh —" 

"I'll never let you get too cold, too dark, too *alone*." 

"*Please*!" 

"Even if — somehow, and this is about as likely as Tristan sprouting wings and flying off — you manage to get out from under *both* of us and take yourself away for a time? *I* will remember that you absolutely didn't mean to do so, that you would *never* mean to do so —" 

"Please please please!" 

"— and I will drag you home by the scruff, shaking you and petting you as needed, until you're ready to listen to good sense again." 

Aramis clutches at the sheets and groans — 

*Shakes* — 

He needs — 

He *needs* — 

And Porthos *pauses*. "Love? What do you need?" 

You, *always* — 

(You *have* me. What else?) 

And Aramis reaches for Daddy gently, *gently*, he doesn't want to *presume*, but — 

(I'm here, son. Grip me by the cock and *yank* if the spirit moves you, please.) 

And Porthos's laughter is so bright inside them — 

All of them — 

And — 

He can have this. 

(It's *yours*.) 

(All of it, son.) 

(*Take* it —)

Please — please keep me. Please *keep* me! 

And Daddy's growl is the *world* — 

Porthos's growl is — is everything *else* — 

Aramis feels so small and *contained* — 

(You *are*,) Daddy says. (You... you'll let us have you? You'll let me adopt you?) 

Yes, please, anything you wish, just keep me forever! 

And Daddy's gasp is so happy — 

And Porthos is rumbling and rumbling and *rumbling* — and *working* Aramis's hole — 

Aramis moans and pants and — yes, just — *yes* — 

"We won't let you go, son," Daddy says with *relish* — 

"Not — not *ever* —" 

"Please, yes, please —" 

"You're *ours* now," Porthos says, and *drags* his slick calluses over Aramis's hole — 

Aramis *shouts* — 

"Oh, you like that so much — " 

"Yes, please —" 

Porthos rubs him hard, *hard* — 

Aramis *groans* — 

His head is so *heavy* — 

"You've always needed soldiers, haven't you, son?" 

"*Please*, Daddy, yes!" 

"Men with *hard* hands..." 

"*Fuck* — oh, *fuck* —" 

"Push in, son," Daddy says — 

"Oh —" 

"Two — two fingers?" 

"That's right. Nice and slow." 

"Oh, *God*," Aramis says, and swallows saliva — "I am — my mouth is *watering* —" 

"Oh, *Aramis*," Porthos says, and starts pushing — 

He's — oh, he's not pushing very slowly, at *all* — 

"Slower than that, son." 

"*Please*!" 

"Shh, Aramis, he has to learn." 

Aramis whimpers and subsides — 

Porthos slows down so *much* — 

Aramis *shakes* — 

It's a tease — 

So hot — 

So — 

Aramis needs *more* — 

And Daddy strokes Aramis's arse with his thumbs again. "Good boys, both of you. Just keep going like this. I know you can take faster — and harder — than this right now, Aramis, and I know you can *feel* that, Porthos, but it's important to get the fundamentals down." 

"Yes — yes, Daddy..." 

Aramis can only moan — 

"There *will* be times when Aramis needs you to go just this slowly, son. Maybe he'll be hurt, or tense for some other reason. Maybe you'll both just be a little too *cold* — that truly would be *enough*, sometimes. Start thrusting slowly, twisting your fingers back and forth." 

"Yes, Daddy, I — oh, he feels so *good* inside..." 

"Of course he does. I can't wait to feel both of you — though I suspect I'll only get to feel *you* tonight."

Oh — "I want — I want both of you! I can take —" 

"Shh, son. You just might wind up tied for quite some time. It *is* Porthos's first time, and we don't know how big that knot will grow." 

That — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

"Precisely." 

Porthos swallows audibly. "I have... these really *weird* urges, Daddy." 

Daddy laughs. "I think I know what they are..." 

Porthos laughs *nervously* — which makes an *odd* juxtaposition to the *perfect* way he's twisting his fingers — 

Making Aramis *rock* on his fingers — 

He must go slow, he must go *slow* — 

"Oh — Aramis..." 

"You see how good you're making him feel, son?" 

"I... nnh. I'm thinking about how much I love it when I fuck myself, and I just — but I can feel that Aramis feels even *better*." 

"It's nearly always better from another loving hand, son. The positioning alone improves things."

"Yes, Daddy. I. Can I... his pleasure-button...?" 

Aramis *pants* — 

"Oh, he wants —" 

"Do it, son. Just as slowly, but not *too* gently." 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, twisting his fingers again and *crooking* — 

Aramis groans and clenches and curls his *toes* — 

"Oh — shit. I need — I need him —" 

"He needs you. About those urges." 

"Yeah. Yeah. I want to mount him and... I want to make him *pregnant*, Daddy," Porthos says, and laughs *extremely* nervously, which Aramis thinks is quite fair — 

Daddy laughs hard — "I know you do, son." 

"I um. I *can't*, right?" 

"No, you can't." 

"Right, all right, yeah —" 

"But you're *always* going to want to *try*." 

"Um. Uh?" 

"Faster, now, son. A little harder. Now that you feel how easy and relaxed he is, yes?" 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"And every few thrusts? Work that pleasure-button." 

"Oh — fuck, yes, Daddy, I want him *loud*."

Aramis grunts low and lifts his arse into the thrusts — 

Grinds into them — 

*Groans* — 

"Oh, love, you're so perfect, you're so — fuck, I want you so *much*," Porthos says, and *gives* him his fingers, his thick *fingers* —

Aramis clenches again and *yells* — 

"Oh, yeah, yeah, just like that, love, just loud for me, so loud, let everyone know I *deserve* you," Porthos says, and *crooks* again — 

"Porthos, *yes*!" 

*Again* — 

"*Porthos*!" 

Porthos pants and growls — "Your hole's so bloody *gorgeous*, I — Daddy, please keep holding him *open* for me —" 

Daddy laughs. "For a little while longer, yes. But... mm. They're *going* to take you, son." 

"Yeah, I — what?" 

Daddy laughs more. "Those *urges*. You'll want to fill Aramis up every time you see him, for a good long while." 

"Yeah, fuck —" Porthos growls and crooks *again* — 

Aramis *howls* — 

Porthos thrusts *hard* with his fingers — 

"*AHN* —" 

"Easy, son, easy —" 

"Sorry, sorry —" 

"Aramis is loose and slick enough that you didn't hurt him — and he *likes* that kind of thrust —" 

"Yes — oh, yes, please, I do! Very much!" 

"But it's important to keep your lead on *fairly* tight, as a general rule, until the person you're preparing is ready for your *cock* — and, in your case, your *knot*, because you won't be able to keep yourself from giving it to him." 

Aramis moans — "I do not want him to stop!" 

"You need to be *ready* for that, son, and, frankly, going from what I'm looking at right now? You're not." 

Aramis flexes *open* and moans more — 

"But you want to be. Mm. Ask your boy if he's ready for another finger." 

Porthos grunts and wetness *spatters* Aramis — 

"Oh, son. Mm. Just the thought of you is exciting him, Aramis." 

"Please, please, *please*!" 

"Aramis — Aramis, are you ready for another?" 

"Please, yes, I — I — you do not have to go *very* slow *this* time," Aramis says, and thinks about it — "I am usually ready for a cock at this point, beautiful Porthos, but... you have more for me." 

"I — I — part of me wants to *apologize* —" 

"You will *not*!" 

"I won't!" 

Daddy laughs *much* — 

"My beautiful Porthos will *fill* me — oh — oh, so *much* —" 

"Is this *good*, Aramis?" And Porthos is *pushing* with his third finger, *rocking* slightly — 

"It's good! Just like that! I — nuh — oh, that — that *motion*!" 

And Porthos growls and rocks his fingers more heavily, more *roughly* — 

Aramis *sobs* — 

"Oh, *fuck*, Aramis, every time you *do* that I — fuck, these *urges* —" 

"Tell me! *Tell* me!" 

"I want to *ram* my cock inside you again and again, fill you with my — my *seed* —" 

"Ah, *God* —" 

"Make you — make you fat with my *babies* —" 

"*God* —" 

"I'm not even *ready* to be a *father*, I don't — I don't know —" 

"Do what you *feel*!" 

Porthos croons and opens him, *opens* him — 

Aramis throws his head back and *shouts* for it, *yells* for it — "My Porthos is so good to me! My Daddy is so good to me!" 

Daddy laughs. "Your Daddy would sincerely love to be good to you for hours at a time, son." 

"Yes, yes — oh, yes!" 

"Porthos is letting me feel you. How strong you are inside. How *sleek*." 

"*Unh* — that is so — oh my *God* —" 

"Have you ever been fisted, son? Perhaps some old campaigner with rough, rough hands?" 

"Oh, I wish! I wish this — UNGH — Porthos, right there, yes — *OH* —" 

"He's crooking all his beautiful fingers?" 

And Aramis can't answer for a moment, can't do anything but moan and *salivate* — 

So good — 

So *good* —!

"Oh, I see," Daddy says. "He's *rubbing* your little pleasure-button. Mm. I'd like to *punish* it with my cock, son." 

Aramis cries *out* — 

"I'd like to *ram* my cock against it again and *again* and *again* — 

"Oh, Daddy, *please*!" 

"I *want* that!" Porthos growls, pressing *hard* against his pleasure-button — 

Aramis *keens* — 

"You won't *quite* be able to, son. Not yet." 

"N-no? Why not?" 

"You'll need your knot in him too much. Too *fast*."

"Oh — fuck —" 

"You're going to be *rutting* more than fucking, son — short, hard, *fast* thrusts that ram your *knot* against his pleasure-button. The longer thrusts will be beyond you until you can resist the urge to work your knot in *right* away." 

"Uh. That. Will happen?" 

Daddy laughs *hard* — and moves his hands. 

"Oh — oh just the feel of him *closed* around me — oh, *fuck* —" 

"It'll happen, son. I *promise* to show you how... not very long from now, at all." 

"Oh fuck — oh fuck, you're getting the oil!" 

"That I am, son." 

Porthos *moans*, then, and clutches Aramis's hip with his free hand, and fucks him harder, *harder* — 

Aramis *howls* again — 

"Oh — shit, Aramis, don't —" 

"My — my beautiful Porthos needs me quiet?" 

"Not that, but — make human sounds, let me — let me keep control —" 

"Tighten that lead, son." 

"Yes, Daddy —" 

"I will be *good* for my men!" 

"Not much longer now, little one. Soon you can lose control." 

Oh, that — "I *want* to!"

"I know you do," Daddy says. "You want to give yourself to us entirely, don't you?" 

"Yes, please!" 

"We want that, too. So badly. Don't we, son?" 

"God — *fuck*, *yes*," Porthos says, and *spreads* Aramis again with his free hand — "I just have to *see* —" 

"You can fuck him harder now, son." 

Aramis moans helplessly and rocks *back* into those thrusts, *wants*, *wants* — 

"Yeah? Harder than this?" 

"Oh, yes. This is the other kind of preparation, now." 

"Oh — oh — *yeah*," Porthos says, and *shoves* in — 

Aramis *screams* — 

Porthos *spatters* him again — 

Aramis clenches tight — 

"He's — he's clenching —" 

"Force him open, son. A little slowly, but hard." 

"Oh, fuck — like —" And Porthos works him, *works* him — 

"*AHN* — yes! *Yes*!" 

"You see?" 

"Oh, Daddy, *yeah*," Porthos says, and keeps fucking Aramis just that way, keeps *taking* him — 

Opening him so — 

Aramis tries not to clench, but every thrust is so *hard* — 

His body can't *prepare* itself fast enough — 

It's so fast — 

So hard and hot and *fast* — 

Aramis *wails* — 

"Ah, *fuck*, Daddy —" 

"Keep it up, just like that. Don't let up." 

"Yes, Daddy, yes —" 

"*Yes* — ohn — ohn, *yes* —" And Aramis *sobs* again — 

Flexes *open* — 

Feels his *belly* flutter — 

"Oh — so *loose*..." 

"Make sure he stays that way, son; keep going," Daddy says — 

He will stay, he will stay — 

Aramis feels like he'll stay this loose *forever* — 

He feels so warm, so open — 

So hazy and well-*used* — 

(Just. *Wait*.) Aloud, Daddy says: "One more finger. You're just going to stretch your brother a little. He's almost ready for you, son." 

"Oh — I need him. I need him so badly, Daddy —" 

Aramis whimpers and tries to lift his arse *more* — 

"He needs you just as badly, son. Now give him that finger... yes. Just like that. See how it slips in almost easily?" 

"Yeah... yeah..." 

"See how his body accepts you almost perfectly now?" 

"He's *mine*," Porthos growls, *turning* his fingers — 

Aramis wails *high*, drumming his feet as his cock jerks and leaks — 

"*Say* it, Aramis, say you're *mine*!" 

"I am yours! I am yours, my Porthos! Please take your *pleasure*!" 

"You *are* my pleasure —" 

"Take *me*!" 

Porthos snarls and turns his fingers *again* — 

"Oh, *God* —" 

"Do you *like* that." 

"I love it! I love it from *you*!" 

Porthos growls. "No one else?" 

"Daddy could — he could —" 

Porthos rumbles approval and fucks him *hard* with his four fingers, twisting them back and *forth* — 

"Porthos — oh, *Porthos* —" 

"Have to make you *loose*." 

"God — I —" 

"Have to — to *open* you —" 

"I am *open*!" 

Porthos crooks his fingers — 

All of his fingers — 

Aramis's vision *blanks*, stutters like *speech* — 

He doesn't know *what* sound he's making right now — 

He doesn't —

Oh, but he's grunting now that Porthos is fucking him again, panting out desperate and breathy little sounds for every *shove* of his fingers —

"Son," Daddy says, quiet and *arresting*. 

Porthos stops *immediately* — 

Aramis clenches and flexes open again — 

"Now, son," Daddy says. "Steady, not too slow." 

"Daddy — oh, fuck, Daddy —" 

"Shh, it's all right. Everything will be fine. Pull out right now, just the way I said." 

Aramis feels himself — 

"Oh — oh, he's *quivering*, Daddy," Porthos says, pulling out steadily and panting just as raggedly as Aramis is. 

"That's natural after a pounding like that. If you hadn't made him spend so many times before, you might have made him spend again *this* way, son," Daddy says. 

"Oh... Aramis?" 

"*Yes*, Porthos, yes, you —" And he laughs wildly. "You will leave my sac as empty as your — as Daddy's purse!" 

Daddy *coughs* laughter — 

Porthos snickers *hard* — and, by the sound of it, takes back some of his control. 

Aramis doesn't *want* that, but he recognizes the use for *this* moment, with his whole body shivering as Porthos fingertips leave him — 

With Porthos's big, *changed* cock — and how much more *had* it changed? Daddy's cock comes to a *point* — 

Daddy's cock *is* red as blood —- and his knot is very, very big. Aramis shivers again — and, just like that, Porthos is petting him, using his clean hand to gentle him like a horse, and — Daddy must have handed him something to use to wipe his other hand. 

He is warm. 

He is gentle and firm. 

He is *warm* — 

"Good boys," Daddy says. "It's natural for a lover to start worrying at this point — even an experienced lover. Your cock is nothing they've ever experienced. Your *lovemaking* is nothing they've ever experienced — not like this — and so... well." 

Oh — "I will *not* be a coward!" 

"Aramis, you're not —" 

"I am not afraid of my love!" And Aramis wills himself to accept, to accept *everything* about the beautiful boy touching him, loving him, *needing* him — 

He moans — 

*Porthos* moans — "Aramis..."

Aramis drops to his elbows and lowers his head. "*Have* me! Please have me!" 

"*Aramis*!" 

"*Tighten your lead*, son." 

"I — I —" 

"You can do it. Just remember the fear in his scent," Daddy says. 

"*No* —" 

And Daddy *snarls* at him — "QUIET."

Aramis presses himself *down* — 

The scars on his hip *throb* — 

And Porthos *grips* Aramis's hips hard. "I — I've got it, Daddy." 

"That you do," Daddy growls, and cups the back of Aramis's neck —

Squeezes gently and warmly — 

Aramis whimpers as quietly as he *can*. He is sorry, so *sorry* — 

"Oh, little one, shh, shh, it's all right. I just *can't* let you two hurt each other. Not like this. There'll be more than enough of the good pain once we get you situated. I promise." 

He doesn't mean to be *bad* — 

"You're keeping your control about as well as anyone in your situation could, son — considering the fact that you're responding to your own arousal *and* both of ours. And I know, you're going to say we're doing fine, but a) we're not, b) I'm much older and more practiced with this kind of control, and c) you've *given* Porthos a lot more control by pleasuring him senseless again and again tonight. Right?" 

"It — it is hard to. Think properly." 

Daddy squeezes the back of Aramis's neck *firmly* — 

Porthos squeezes his *hips* — 

"Think of nothing," Daddy says. "Think of nothing, at all, but our hold on you." 

Oh... 

"Our little one. Our beautiful little boy." 

Yes — yes — 

"Our son and brother and *lover*." 

Yes, *yours*!

"And all you want is to give yourself to us, over and over again..." 

"I am *yours*. It is *proper*." 

"It is, son. It *is*. But you have to learn how to do it right. Don't you." 

"Oh — yes, Daddy. This makes sense." 

"You've learned many ways to give yourself to people, and some of them are *almost* right — certainly, many of them are *exactly* right for *me* —" 

"Oh, Daddy, *yes* —" 

"You make me hard as *steel*, Aramis. You make us *both* need to have you day and *night*." 

And his first response is only *please*, but — he knows that was a test, of sorts. "I — I must show care, with Porthos." 

Daddy squeezes him again, and then Porthos does.

"Until Porthos's control is much, much better than it is, you must indeed show care — and you now know precisely when and how, don't you?" 

"Yes, Daddy." 

Porthos squeezes him hard. "I wish — I'm sorry, love. I don't want to put you through this," he says, and sounds sad and *guilty*.

And Aramis realizes that that is how he's found the last few minutes of control — by berating himself for being a *burden* on *him*. "Porthos, *no*! I — the problem is that I desire you — as you are! — too *much*. You must not wish to change!" 

"But —" 

"Yes, *both* of you remember that there are no essential faults in either of you," Daddy says. "There are simply differences which make sex a little more complicated — at first. All right? *Feel* each other." 

And Aramis can feel Porthos touching his spirit, stroking him, *having* him that way — 

A part of him *sparks* with the need to discuss the human soul and redemption, but even he knows it's not the time — 

Daddy laughs softly and starts to pet him, inside and out —

And Aramis wants to be ready again, wants to have not wasted time, wants — 

"It's not *waste*," Porthos growls — 

"But we can make you ready," Daddy says, cupping the *front* of his throat and squeezing *hard* — 

And Porthos reaches between his legs and *takes* his cock — 

Squeezes it and — 

And — 

Aramis can't *howl* like this, and he's so grateful, because Porthos is massaging his cock again, and this hard, from this angle, with no clothing in the way — 

Nothing in the *way* of those calluses, that hot skin, that — 

Aramis groans in his chest and spreads his knees more, rocks, grinds, thrusts *uselessly* — Porthos isn't holding Aramis's cock in any *consistent* way — 

It still feels *better* to move — 

"Does it? Be still," Daddy says. 

Aramis's jaw drops — 

His cock *jerks* — 

His hole clenches and *flexes* and he's sweating again, needing again, just like that, just like *that*, and he *needs* to move* — 

But he can't. 

He can't. 

He just has to be still, and take this, every rough squeeze, every somehow *testing* press — 

And he has to be still for the glancing strokes that strike sparks off his need —

And he has to be still for the black flowers blooming in his vision — 

For the *quiver* in his hole — 

The ache — 

He's so *empty* — 

He is is still, *still* —

Still and small and — 

He will stay just this way, open and loose, open and ready for his men. 

He can hear Porthos moaning — 

(Yes, I see now what kind of control you need, at least sometimes,) Daddy says. 

Yes, please, Aramis says, and tries to make himself more small, more still, more open, more — 

(Shh, you're perfect just like this, son. And you'll have this control when you need it. I promise.) 

Yes, Daddy, Aramis says, and stays — 

And stays while Daddy directs Porthos to oil his cock — 

He doesn't need to move until *they* say. He will not. 

"You don't need to move until we take all your control away, son," Daddy says, and moves his hand to the back of Aramis's neck again.

Aramis takes a deep breath — "Yes, Daddy," he says, and breathes through the feel of Porthos stroking his hole with the tip of his cock —

The obviously-*pointed* tip of cock, and it wasn't *like* that before, it was not — 

And Aramis will be the only person to ever experience that other cock. To ever feel its *blunt* tip in his throat...

"I can't think of many other people who would cherish that memory the way it should be cherished," Daddy says, and squeezes Aramis's neck hard again, holds him, holds him steady — 

"I will keep it *forever* within me!" 

And Porthos growls *loudly* — and starts to push. Starts — 

At first, it seems a little disappointing, as though all the preparation has made him *too* relaxed for Porthos's cock — and hadn't Daddy said something, before, that implied it might grow more slim? But. 

But Porthos keeps going, and going, and there's so much of him, and even when he *stops* — 

He's whining, growling — 

There is something big and hot and *throbbing* against Aramis's *hole* — 

Porthos is push-pushing — 

Gripping Aramis's hips so *tight* — 

His growls are deep, animal, *echoing* — 

"Shh, it's all right, son, you're almost there —" 

"He's. So *small*, still!" 

And that's when Aramis realizes that the *big* thing is Porthos's *knot* —

That he still must *take* —!

Aramis's belly drops and his cock jerks and — 

And Daddy squeezes Aramis's neck *firmly* — 

Aramis breathes — 

"You'll have your brother, son. I promise." 

— and flexes *open* — 

"How — I can't — I don't want —" 

"You *do* want, though. Don't you." 

Porthos pants — 

And pants — 

"I want to fuck him through the *floor*." 

"That's *right*. And you'll get your chance if you listen to me." 

"Daddy. *Daddy* —" 

"Spread him again, son." 

"I can't — I see my cock inside him — it's everything I can bloody do not to *shove* —" Porthos whines and whines and — 

Daddy *squeezes* Aramis — 

Aramis stays still and *quiet* — 

"You're going to push, son. Just like you pushed when you were giving him your first two fingers. Remember?" 

Porthos whines *piteously* —

His hands *shake* on Aramis — 

Aramis stays still, stays *still* — 

"I — I remember, Daddy, yeah." 

"Good boy. That's my good boy. Five deep breaths, then start, all right?" 

"Yeah — yeah, all right —" 

"Good. One... two... three... four... five... now." 

"Oh — oh, *shit*, he feels —" 

"He feels perfect, I know. Remember, though, you're going to be hurting him in a moment." 

"Yeah, I — oh, but he's so good on my *knot*, so hot and tight, so hot and *tight* — I want to *stay* —" 

Aramis grits his teeth *helplessly* — 

"Oh, no, no, I *won't* —" 

"*Don't* pull out, son. Keep pushing in." 

"But —" 

"You'll hurt him a little more. That's normal."

Porthos whines and growls and whines and — pushes — 

*Opens* Aramis with his knot — 

Aramis can't hold back a gasp — 

*Several* gasps — it's so big! 

It's so — 

He has to be *quiet* — 

Daddy is *massaging* the back of his neck, but — "Nuh —" 

Porthos *jerks*, *shoving* in a little — 

*Aramis* whines — 

"Shh, easy, boys, *easy*, you're almost there," Daddy says, and strokes Aramis so firmly, so *soothingly*, but Aramis can only *shake* — 

"I'm — 'm pouring *sweat* —" 

"You smell perfect, son —" 

"He feels — you're both —" 

"Just keep pushing, son —"

"I want to be inside him so *badly*," Porthos growls — 

"I know, son, almost —"

But Aramis is panting, slick, *needy* —

Ready — 

*Needy* — 

Porthos *snarls* and pushes faster, *faster* — 

"Son —" 

"I — can *feel* — he needs me *now*." And it's still steady, still — still *even*, but yes, fast, *fast*, and — 

"*AHN*!" 

"Oh. Oh..." 

Aramis pants and pants and tries not to scream, tries not to howl, tries — 

Oh, but Porthos is all the way *inside* him — 

Porthos is — 

Porthos has *opened* him with his knot, stretched him wide, *tied* him — 

He — 

"Oh, sons," Daddy says. "*Now*." And he strokes Aramis lightly, so lightly as he backs away — 

And Porthos's growl seems to come from the *earth* as he *covers* Aramis — 

The change in angle makes Aramis *howl* — 

"*Yes*," Porthos says, gripping Aramis's left shoulder with one hand and the back of his neck with his other, and the first shove is so short it's *shocking* — 

But the next is just as short and *hard* — 

Aramis *yelps* — 

"Oh, *Aramis*..." 

And Aramis *remembers*, Aramis can *think* — "Please more!" 

Porthos growls and grips him *tighter*. "I *love* you," he says and rams *in* — 

"*Oh* —" 

And *in* — 

"Oh, yes!" 

"You — you like —" 

"Do not stop!" 

Porthos snarls and — and *gives* it to him, fast and hard and *hard*, short, rutting shoves that don't stop, don't — 

"Oh, Porthos!" 

"I love you so much!" 

"I am in love with you! I never want to go —" And the last word turns into another *howl*, because Porthos changes angle again, rams Aramis's pleasure-button so hard, so *hard* — 

Aramis can't *see* even though his eyes feel wide as *saucers* — 

Aramis can't — can't *breathe* properly — 

"Tell me — *talk*!" 

"P-Porthos —" 

"Tell me how it *feels*," Porthos says, and he's still thrusting so hard, still — still *rutting* — 

And Aramis wants to tell Porthos that it feels like he's being possessed, that it feels like he's being taken by something so much greater — 

He can't make coherent *sounds* — 

He's *drooling* — 

(He can still hear you. Can't you, son.) 

"*Yes*. *I*. *I*..." (There's never been anything like this, there's never been anything so good, so sweet, so perfect — I LOVE YOU!) 

And Aramis croons desperately, needily — 

He feels *flattened* by more than just Porthos's strength and size, more than just his *force*. 

There's so much feeling, so much — 

(We love you, son,) Daddy says, and he's so warm, so happy, so — 

Oh, and his fingertips are on Aramis's lips — 

Aramis wants to *suck*, but he can't stop crooning, grunting, crying *out* — 

Porthos is fucking him so hard, so *hard*, and Aramis has no resistance to it, Aramis has no way to *stand* against it — 

He is *flattened* — 

They had opened him and eased him and soothed him and quieted him and now he's only *fit* for this, only fit to be fucked and used and *worked* — 

So well — 

So hard and well and Porthos is grunting and growling for every *shoving* rut, Porthos is pushing him down even farther — 

Aramis nods and lowers his head, goes down, goes *down*, and Daddy is dragging his slick fingertips along his cheek — 

Twining his fingers with Porthos's on the back of Aramis's head — 

He is theirs, he is *theirs* — 

They grip and *pull* his hair — 

Aramis *clenches* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Aramis's cock jerks and spasms — 

And Porthos's howl cuts off with a *snarl* as he moves his hand from Aramis's shoulder to his cock — 

"Nuh — ahn — *AHN* —" 

As he ruts even faster, even *harder* — 

"*Porthos*!" 

"You. You. *Spend*!" 

And Aramis grunts and *works* himself between Porthos's cock and his hand, works and — 

And Daddy laughs low and dirty and *shoves* three fingers into Aramis's *mouth* — 

Aramis clenches *violently* and *screams* — 

His belly bottoms *out* — 

Porthos slams *in* — 

And Aramis's eyes roll back as he spends, as he whimpers and *spends* — 

"*Yes* — my — oh, *yes*," Porthos says, and fucks him even harder, fucks him through through the clenches and shudders, and Aramis can't stop whimpering, can't stop *spurting* — 

And then *Daddy* starts fucking his *mouth* with his fingers, and Aramis yells, messy and spit-slick and *loud* — 

Porthos *snarls* again — 

Slams *in*-*in*-*in* — 

Howls *again* — and starts to spend, filling him — 

Oh, hot, oh, *hot*, and Aramis is still scrambled, still spurting himself, and he can't — 

He wants to tell himself that it's *not* hotter, different, more *special* than other men's spend has been — 

But of course it is. 

Aramis groans and takes it, takes it *all* — 

Takes Porthos's spasming and *jerking* cock — 

He's panting and so *tense* — 

Aramis feels like he's slumping *for* him — and, perhaps, like he's suckling Daddy's fingers for him.

Porthos is panting and shaking above him, clutching him so *tightly* — 

Still pulling Aramis's *hair* — 

He can do that for as long as he *wishes*, so long as he periodically fucks Aramis just like that. 

"I... I... *fuck*." 

Mmm...

Daddy laughs and tugs his fingers out of Aramis's mouth. "You certainly do, son. Are you ready for more, yet?"

Aramis *blinks* — 

And Porthos's cock jerks *hard* within him. "Oh, Daddy... are you. Are you going to fuck *me*, now?" 

Oh...

"*Fuck*, love, you should *see* Daddy's smile right now." 

"I think I can feel it causing new hair growth on my chest and balls." 

Daddy snorts *hard*. "Aramis." 

"Ah, no? Then it must be all this good, strong, *wild* spend filling me up." 

"Oh, God. Oh, God, I really *will* be ready if you keep talking like —" 

"Or maybe that spend is simply making me fat with my Porthos's big, strong, brown babies —" 

"UNH — *shit* —"

"Soon, I will hardly be able to walk..." 

"Oh my God —" 

"I will... drip... milk? How far do these urges go, my Porthos?" 

"I don't *know*," he says, mournful and desperate. 

"You just know you like these thoughts very much?" 

"*Yes*." 

And Daddy laughs uproariously. 

Aramis hums, arse stinging and almost *thrumming* with good *use*, and folds his arms under his head. *Now* he has pleased.


	10. Home.

Porthos gives up on anything like — *anything*, and licks the sweat from Aramis's strong shoulders. 

It's a damned good way to distract himself from the way his cock is *stuck* in Aramis's arse — 

From the way that seems like the most *correct* thing in the world — 

From the way that *feels* like the *best* thing in the world — 

Except for maybe getting Aramis pregnant. 

Really *extremely* pregnant. With — 

All right, no. Porthos pushes up on his hands a little and glares at Daddy, who's leaning against the headboard and tossing the little pot of oil from hand to hand. "Daddy, c'mon, am I really going to want to suckle *milk* from Aramis's *breasts*? Which I'll somehow make him *grow*?" 

"Well, do you?" 

"*Yes*." 

"There you are, then." 

"*Fuck*." 

Daddy laughs *viciously* hard — and lets his tongue loll. 

Porthos would do the same, only he's a little afraid that it would lead to him being a dog, considering — everything. 

He stays. He stays. 

(Good boy. Good son.) 

(I would like to state —)

"No, don't! Aramis. Don't," Porthos says, and kisses the back of his neck softly, softly — 

And Aramis laughs just a little evilly. "I know I should not laugh, I *know* I am going to be *thoroughly* fucked by a very big dog one day —" 

"Best *choose* that day, son," Daddy says, and taps Aramis's nose with the little pot. 

Aramis shivers — and smiles ruefully. "There are times, Daddy, when I like my choices taken away," he says so quietly, so *serenely*, just as if — 

Porthos can't stop *growling* — 

"The kennels, son. Remember the *kennels*." 

The shift feels like it's *boiling* under his *skin* — 

"*Son*." 

"But, Daddy, he *wants* —" 

"But *I* want your fat, round, *human* arse tonight." 

Porthos grunts — 

Clenches on a *fantasy* — 

Bares his throat *reflexively* — and stops, all over. All *over*. 

He's — human. 

He stays. 

"Good boy," Daddy says, and then taps Aramis's nose again. "*You're* going to get yourself fucked blind one day soon." 

"I want —" 

"That day is today," Daddy says, and moves round behind Porthos. 

Porthos kneels up — 

"No, son. Stay down and hold *Aramis* down." 

"Oh — fuck —" 

Aramis moans — "Am I — to be punished?" 

"Oh, yes, little one. And you're going to love every minute of it." 

Aramis moans *more* — 

Porthos can't stop himself from petting his *throat* — 

"Reach back with one hand and spread yourself for me, son." 

"Oh — *God*, Daddy, this is already so many different *fantasies*!" 

"For me, as well. The barracks, the armory, all over the grounds, Laurent's office —" 

"Here. Right *here*." 

"*Just* here, son?" 

"No, Daddy, but — but here or *your* bedroom, or the one you used to share with Maman —" 

Daddy growls and *pauses* with his fingers *pressed* to Porthos's hole — 

"No? I'm —-" 

"I can't — think of that." 

Porthos blinks —

And Daddy growls a laugh. "And I know exactly why you can. Oh, son. You're going to have a *fascinating* relationship with the children you have someday." 

"I —" 

"Because *we've* had a — well. We've definitely done some wonderful and terrible things with you," Daddy says. "*Fuck* — I. In *brief*: I have a *limit* here, and it's *not* your fault, but it *is* a limit many people would have, because it *reeks* of incest, just like everything else we're doing, and so it *is* wildly strange and hypocritical for me to have that limit when I wanted to make love to your mother and I will *always* want to make love to you, but this is because *I'm* strange, and raised you... differently. From everyone else. All right?" 

Porthos frowns and nods. "Why are you strange?" 

"I've had a lot of time to think about this while lusting for you desperately, son," Daddy says, and rubs Porthos's hole — 

Rubs it so — 

Oh, it's already so much *better* — 

Porthos presses his lips to the back of Aramis's neck and *moans* — 

Aramis *gasps* — 

Wriggles beneath him — 

Moans so *sweetly* when Porthos holds him still by pressing his *weight* down, and by firming his grip on Aramis's *throat* — 

"Oh, good boys," Daddy says, and rubs *harder* — 

"Unh — *unh* — thank you, Daddy!" 

Rubs *slower* — 

Porthos *bucks* — 

Aramis *grunts* — 

Clenches around him — 

*Gasps* — 

"Oh — oh, Aramis —" And Porthos buries his nose in Aramis's hair, snuffles and tastes his pleasure and — knowledge? He's realizing *something*... "Aramis? What are you thinking?" 

"I — Daddy is going to fuck you *into* me." 

"Oh, yes," Daddy says, and the smile in his voice is *vicious*. 

"Your knot will not shrink for even *longer*!" 

"I —" 

And Daddy laughs dirty and *low*. "I did say you'd be punished, son." 

"Oh, *God* —" 

"But. Mm. You're going to love every second of it," Daddy says, and rubs what *must* be his hardest calluses over Porthos's hole so *slowly* — 

Porthos shudders and groans and aches and — 

Bucks — 

Aramis clenches and groans *with* him — 

Whimpers — 

Pants and *tries* to lift his arse — 

Porthos is *crushing* him — but he can't *stop* rutting when Daddy is doing *that*, when he's rubbing like *that* — 

"My good, good boys..." 

"Fuck — *please* —" 

"Just take it, Porthos..." 

"I —" 

"And make Aramis take it, too," Daddy says, and *smiles* more. 

Aramis *shudders* under him and *moans* — 

And even though Porthos can smell him — 

All but taste him — 

And *feel* him — 

He still has to move his hand from Aramis's throat, he still has to reach for Aramis's cock, make sure he's still hard, make sure he's still *hot*, *enjoying* this — 

"Oh, Porthos!" 

"Need you, need your *pleasure* —" 

"You have it! Both of you!" 

"You — you like being punished?" 

And Daddy *stops* rubbing —

Aramis gasps again and turns his head as much as he can — "*Porthos*, this is a very, very pleasurable punishment!" 

"But — it's still punishment," Porthos says, cupping his cock, stroking it, warming it and loving it — 

Aramis moans — "Mm, I — yes —" 

"And you like it?" 

"Yes — yes, I *do*," Aramis says, closing his eyes and smiling. "I have... wanted," he says, and shares memories of old campaigners holding him down, spanking him mostly gently, or for not *long* enough — 

Not *meanly* enough — 

Not *harshly* enough — 

Porthos frowns and considers. "They were mostly like Hercule?" 

"Not so *severe*, and you mustn't think Hercule is bad! I care for him very much!"

"Of course you do, son. He's a good man." 

"Yes! Very good! And so were all the others," Aramis says, and sighs. "But I think... I think they liked me wild." 

"I can't imagine why," Daddy says, and, this time, the smile in his voice is wry. 

Aramis grins. "My *Daddy* likes to *control* me. I like this very much!" 

"My *son* has needed a firm hand. Yes?" 

"A firm and *loving* hand," Aramis says, and blushes. "Like both of yours." 

Porthos moans and bites the back of Aramis's neck again — 

"Ah — yes, Porthos!" And Aramis *drops* his head just like that —

So beautiful — 

So *correct* — 

Porthos has to make *love* to the back of his neck — 

Lick him and mouth him and *taste* him — 

"Good, good boys," Daddy tells them, and, "Here," he says, and pushes in with — with two fingers — 

Porthos groans and *drools* right on Aramis's *neck* — 

He has to *slurp* — 

He can't *do* it right away — 

And then he can't *stop* sucking hard kisses, moaning hard kisses — 

Daddy's just *holding* his fingers there!

"Letting you feel them, son." 

"Please, Daddy, *please*!" 

"I'm hard for you, son." 

"Yes — oh, *please* —" 

"*Fairly* soon, I'm going to start letting myself off the lead." 

"Oh. Daddy..." 

"You don't know what that means, yet, but you will." 

"Yes, Daddy," Porthos says, and licks his lips — 

Kisses Aramis, who's definitely paying *close* attention — 

"What should I do?" 

"Keep being my big, beautiful, perfect boy — and prepare yourself to protect Aramis from some of my force. I'm going to fuck you much, much harder than we can fuck him." 

Porthos *grunts* — 

Aramis makes a soft, soft noise of *hunger* — 

Porthos has to lick up into his hairline for that — 

He shivers — 

"Son." 

Porthos stops with his tongue-tip pressed to Aramis's scalp. Pulls *back*. "Yes, Daddy?" 

"Is there anything you'd like to know, anything else you'd like me to tell you before we begin?" 

That — "Well... I'd like to know more about you being *strange*, Daddy, and — and just *everything*, but you've got your fingers inside me, and I need — I really need —" 

"*Son*," Daddy *growls*, and shoves *deeper* — 

"Ah, fuck, *yes*," Porthos says, and lifts his arse as much as he *can* while still tied to Aramis — 

"*Good* boy," Daddy says, pulling out and shoving *in* again, jarring Porthos, heating him up all over, giving him that — that *burn*, only this time there's no *awkwardness*, no weird twistiness — 

"Please please *again*!" 

Daddy growls and shoves *in* — 

Porthos *barks*, cock flexing — 

Aramis *gasps* — 

Daddy shoves in *again* — 

Porthos *barks* again, before the blush from the first is even fully-*formed* — 

Oh, fuck, oh, *fuck* — 

His cock is *jerking* inside Aramis — 

It feels like his knot is *swelling* — 

"It almost certainly is, son," Daddy says, and shoves *in* —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"It was always going to after a fuck like that — that's just how your body works," he says, and *in* — 

"I — *I* — *Daddy* —" 

"Your body *needs* to tie Aramis. Everyone you knot, really, but *especially* the people you love," he says, and — and — so *hard* — 

Aramis *clenches* around him — 

Porthos *croons* — 

"You need it, you need to *plug* your boy, son, make sure he takes — *keeps* — all your *seed*." 

"Fuck — fuck, yes!" 

Aramis clenches *harder* — 

Porthos bucks *wildly* — 

Aramis *shouts* — 

"Your *lead*, son!" 

Porthos cries out and — "I remember! I'll remember!" 

"Good *boy*," Daddy says, and keeps *giving* it to him, so — so *good* — 

"Daddy, *Daddy*, please don't stop!" 

"I won't now. I can't now, son. I thought I'd have a little longer than this, but your scents, your need for me — you *want* this," he says and keeps fucking him, keeps — 

It's just his fingers — 

It's just *two* of his fingers — 

There'll be *more* — 

"Soon, son, *soon*," Daddy says, and slicks him all round — 

"Ah —" 

Pulls out and comes back with *more* oil so *fast* — 

"Unh — oh, *yeah*, Daddy, make me — make me so *sloppy* —" 

"*Fuck*, son, be — be *ready*," he says, pulling out and — and coming back with a third *finger*, and — 

Oh, fuck, Porthos doesn't usually *last* this long — 

Just — 

Just thinking about his Daddy *having* him and *looking* at him and *smiling* at him and *talking* — 

"I won't shut *up*," Daddy says, and pushes *deep* — 

Porthos *whines* — 

"Do you like it, son? Does it make you want my cock even more?" 

Porthos groans and *bites* Aramis — 

Aramis clenches *violently* — 

And Porthos fucks him, just *fucks* him, he can't — 

He can't hold *back* any longer or he'll be too *rough* — 

Even *this* — 

Aramis sounds like he's *punching* him — 

"Unh — nuh — ungh — *Porthos*! Oh, yes! Oh, *yes*!" 

"Maybe a *little* different from your punches, son," Daddy says, *laughing* as he *twists* his three fingers, twists while he *thrusts* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Aramis clenches *harder* — 

Porthos can't stop *fucking* him — 

He can't — 

He — 

"Please please please *use* me," Aramis says, panting and wild under him, trying so *hard* to lift his arse into Porthos's thrusts, to *rock* into them — 

"To make himself *better* for you, son." 

"Yes! *Yes*, my Porthos, *please*! Do not stop!" 

"He'll *have* to when I give him another finger... but that's not *quite* yet," Daddy says, and fucks him *faster* with his three fingers, *reams* him — 

Porthos howls again, spreads his knees — and *Aramis's* knees — tries to give, tries to slow down, tries to — 

No, fast, *fast*, *rut* into his boy, his beauty, his Aramis, give it to him hard, he likes it, good boy, good *boy* — 

"UNH — *Porthos*!" 

He likes it hard, likes it *rough*, likes — likes it *mean* — 

Loving and *mean* — 

Porthos will give him *everything* — 

Aramis sobs and *shakes* — 

Clenches and sobs and *wails* — 

And Porthos *knows* that sound now, knows it means Aramis is close, knows that he's losing *control* — 

"Good *boys*," Daddy says, and *crooks* his fingers — 

Porthos *snarls* and bites down *hard* — 

Aramis wails again, *beats* at the bed with his fist, sobs and sobs and — 

Clenches — 

Porthos *squeezes* Aramis's cock — 

And it *spurts* for him, for them, spurts so hot, so wet, Porthos can smell — 

He needs to *taste* — 

He catches some of the spend and wipes Aramis's wailing mouth with it —

Aramis clenches again and *shouts* — 

Porthos yips and wipes his *own* mouth — 

He laps and laps — 

Croons — 

Fucks Aramis *through* his spend, ruts him through it, *takes* him, and Aramis is panting and whimpering now, panting out snatches of prayers in Latin and *begging* in French — 

So beautiful — 

Porthos leans in to lick, to suck at his neck at shoulders —

Daddy is still *having* him — 

They're all sweating heavily, but Porthos is *slick* from head to toe — 

He can't stop *fucking* Aramis — 

He can't stop — 

"Of course you can," Daddy says. "*Now*." 

Porthos yelps and stills, shuddering and whining, *whining*, he's so *hard* — 

Aramis groans and *slumps* — 

"Shh, just a moment, boys. Our Porthos is loosening up so..." And Daddy sighs out a long and hungry growl. "I'm going to ride your ass every chance I *get*, son," he says, and pulls out until just the tips of his fingers are in. "I'm going to crawl into your bed at night just for this. Just for... I *NEED* YOU!" 

"Please take me! Please fuck me so —" And then Porthos is howling high, *screaming*, *howling*, because that's four fingers, that's half of Daddy's *hand*, that's — 

Oh, he can feel every knuckle, every callus, every — 

"Oh. Oh, son..." 

Porthos is still *quivering* — 

"I didn't... I didn't injure you, I promise... ah, fuck, I need — more control —" 

"*No*," Porthos sobs, and — tries to do better, sound better — he shakes his head hard, tries to — 

"Shh, shh, it's all right, I —" 

"Daddy, please, please, keep *going*!" 

Daddy *growls*, brief as a grunt — 

Freezes —

And then *grips* Porthos with the hand he doesn't have inside him — "Oh, *son*, you make me *wild*," he says, and *rocks* his fingers back and forth — 

Porthos barks *twice*, cock spasming so *hard* — 

Aramis grunts and *moans* — 

He's still so — 

So limp and *pliant* — 

Porthos's cock spasms *again* — 

"Yes, son. Think about Aramis. His scent. His *body*," Daddy says, and keeps rocking his four fingers *slowly* — 

"Please —" 

"Think about his tight-swollen arse, plugged with your perfect *knot* —" 

"*Nnh* —" 

"Think about the sounds he'll make for you *when* you start fucking him *again*..." 

"Oh, God —" 

Aramis *croons* — 

Porthos *clenches* — 

Howls and *bucks* — 

Aramis *yells* — 

And Porthos can't — 

*Can't* — 

He's fucking Aramis again, rocking into him, and it's slower, but it's so hard, so — 

He's shoving himself back and forth between them, *working* himself between them — 

"It's beautiful, son, it's —" Daddy growls — 

Aramis gasps and — "Ahn — *ahn* — *Porthos*, oh — oh, your — your beautiful *cock*!" 

Porthos jerks and *bites* Aramis again — 

Aramis *screams* — 

— and Porthos doesn't know why he'd *bothered* telling Daddy to mark Aramis somewhere else; he's *never* going to let Aramis's throat alone, so pretty, so — 

Aramis gets so *loud* — 

"My Porthos has earned — earned *all* of me!" 

Porthos bites *harder* — 

Aramis shouts and shudders all *over* — 

Porthos wants to hold him *tight* — 

"You want to grip his *chest*, son." 

"Daddy —" 

"You want to *crush* him." 

"Yes — *yes* —" 

"You want to hold him in *place* — " 

"God, *yes*, Daddy!" 

Daddy laughs evilly and crooks all of his fingers — 

All *four* — 

Porthos's vision goes *white* — 

"Oh, son..."

And Porthos is rutting, rutting and *rutting* through his spend, howling and *sobbing*, and Daddy is reaming him again — 

Saying — 

Saying *something* — 

Porthos doesn't *know* what it is, and he doesn't want to *miss* it, but he can't concentrate on anything but the sweet *burn* in his arse and the heat all through him, all over him, all *through* — 

Daddy *twists* his fingers — 

Porthos screams like a *boy* — 

Daddy growls *hard* — 

Aramis is moaning and moaning and — and *milking* him — 

Oh, *God* — 

Porthos's vision is coming back in wild and strobic *flashes* — 

Aramis licking and sucking his own fingertips — 

Aramis's sweat-lank hair clinging to the back of his neck — 

Aramis's own spend on his cheek — 

Porthos snarls and licks it away, bites it away — 

Aramis gasps and clenches *tight* — 

Porthos spurts again, *again* — 

*Howls* again — 

Howls until he runs out of *air* — 

Collapses on his hands as his body finally stops *rutting* — 

"There's my boy," Daddy says, pulling out slow and steady as Porthos and Aramis pant and *groan* — 

Porthos still can't *focus* properly — 

"*Now* you're ready for me." 

Porthos stops *breathing* — 

Aramis laughs *hysterically* — 

And Daddy *growls* a laugh while Porthos tries to pick his *mind* up off the *floor*. 

"No, no, leave it there, son. I'll fuck you right... down... to it," Daddy says, slipping out completely — 

Moving away — 

Somewhere — 

"Just wiping my hand, son. Take this time to — nearly — catch your breath." 

"*Fuck* —"

Daddy laughs more. "Is it like your fantasies? Mm? *Tell* me about them." 

"You — you doing me *hard* —" 

"As hard as that?" 

"*Yes* — but." 

"Hrr?" And Daddy's right back, spreading him with one hand and... oh. 

Oh, that's Daddy's cock — 

The tip all pointy and stroking him round and — 

Round and *round* — Porthos groans and *flexes* —

Aramis makes a small sound — 

A *needy* sound — 

"Good *boys*," Daddy says, and keeps *teasing* his hole — 

It feels so *swollen* — 

"It *is*. Now tell me. Tell me what's different in your fantasies." 

"I'm never so — so *lost*!" 

"No? You have more control...?" 

"Yes, Daddy! I can — I can talk to you and — and make *sense* for more than two bloody minutes at a *time*!" 

"Well, son, I've bad news for you," Daddy says, and *dips* the tip of his cock in — 

"Oh, fuck —" 

— and slips it *out* again — 

"Oh, *fuck* —" 

"You're fourteen years old, son." 

"Wh-what?" 

Daddy laughs hard — and *shoves* in — 

Porthos barks and barks and *barks* — 

"Oh, son... my perfect son... hrrr... mm. Do that just as much as you like..." 

Porthos barks more, drools, punches through the sheets with his fingers — 

"That's it... oh, your sweet arse is clenching so *tight* around me..." Daddy pants and *grips* his hips. "It won't be long now..." 

Porthos *howls* —

"I'm going to fuck him right *into* you, Aramis. Are *you* ready?" 

"I have begun to understand your insistence on proper preparation, Daddy!" And Aramis laughs hysterically some more. 

"Hrr hrr... mm. Good *boys*," he says, and *slaps* Porthos's hips — 

Porthos yips and *gulps* — "Daddy!" 

"Right here, son. And you're fourteen, and a dog, and in love. Don't expect control for another... hmmm... fifteen years or so, and even then —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Precisely," Daddy says, and breathes deep — "Fuck, your scents are *incredible*. Now *drop*, because if you stay like that one more *second*, I'm going to — oh, son, do you *feel*?" 

"UNH —" Porthos *obeys*, flattening Aramis, because — 

"Oh — *yes* —" 

Because he *does* feel, because Daddy is *straining* inside — 

*Forcing* the kennel doors shut — 

"That's. *Right*." And Daddy pants, pulling out slowly and *grinding* in — 

Porthos moans and *shakes* — 

"I won't. Injure. My *boys*." And Daddy grinds in *again* — 

And *again* — 

And Daddy shudders, raking his human claws down Porthos's sides — 

Porthos lifts his arse *helplessly* — 

"My *boy*..." 

"*Yours*," Porthos sobs, and licks Aramis frantically, *desperately* — 

Daddy pants and grinds and *grinds* and — "Here it comes, son," he says, pulling out most of the way and *ramming* in, right against Porthos's pleasure-button — 

Porthos *howls* again — 

"Oh, son... again," Daddy says, pulling out and ramming *in* — 

*In* — 

*In* — 

*IN*, and Porthos is panting, choking on his howls, *sobbing* and shaking and he can't bear to move, can't — 

He needs every *ounce* of that force, every — 

He needs every *pound* of it, every — just right there, just right — 

"*Here*, son?" And Daddy rams him again, and starts thrusting in so *fast*, so *fast*, all the way *in* — no. 

*Not* all the way in, because that's his *knot* slapping against Porthos's hole, that's — 

Porthos makes a *desperate* noise — 

Porthos flexes *open* — 

"Oh, son... just a *little* more of this. I need it. The man in me *needs* it," Daddy says, panting and — 

And riding him down. 

Just — 

The thrusts are so *long* — 

So — 

So good and deep and *long*, and Porthos can feel every inch of his Daddy, every thick and hard and sleek and perfect *inch* of him as he drives in — 

So *deep* —

Porthos is *groaning* — 

He still can't bring himself to *move* — 

To do anything but brace himself and *take* it, kiss Aramis and lick him and *take* it so — 

He wants it all — 

(Do you, now...) 

PLEASE! 

And Daddy starts *panting* — 

His thrusts gets shorter — 

*Harder* — 

He's growling and clawing *hard* at Porthos's hips and sides — 

And Porthos knows what it means, he — 

There are limits to Daddy's control, too. 

"Please *knot* me, Daddy!" 

Daddy snarls and *spreads* him — 

Spreads him wide and *tight* — 

Porthos cries *out* — 

"Oh, Porthos, is he — is he pushing —"

Porthos grunts and tries not to — no. He doesn't try anything. He just croons and sobs and lets go, lets everything go and lets his Daddy open him wide — 

"*Rock* into it, son. Show me. *Show* me you want it," Daddy says, and Porthos does just that, gives it to his Daddy and to Aramis, too — 

"Oh — *God*!" 

Rocks back and forth and back and forth, and it isn't slow, he won't be slow, he won't — 

Oh, fuck, Daddy's so big, so *fucking* big, and he has to take it all, make room for his Daddy — 

"That's right — that's *right*, son, *open* for me —" 

And Porthos sobs and keeps rocking, bursts out with fresh sweat, drools on Aramis, licks it up, bites him helplessly, bites his hair and *yanks* — 

"AHN —" 

And Daddy keeps *pushing* — 

There's so *much* — 

"It's *yours*, son —" 

His, it's his, and he has to take it, *make* it his, open up for it, rock faster, *harder* — 

"Nuh — unh — *Porthos* —" 

And the feel of Aramis inside him is so chaotic, so tired and wild, so hungry and *thrilled* — 

Some part of him still can't believe this is *happening* — 

"We'll *make* him believe. *Won't* we, son?" 

"Yes, Daddy, yes yes — *yes*," Porthos sobs and *slams* himself back — 

They *all* howl — 

Daddy's *in* — 

Daddy's plugging him so *tight* — 

"Right and *proper*," Daddy growls, covering them, *crushing* them, and starting to *rut*, just that *fast* — 

Just that *hard* — 

Porthos chokes on his howl and can't even *gasp* for another breath, can't make *noise* as Daddy — 

As Daddy *does* fuck him into Aramis — 

His cock feels so *slickly* chafed, so sensitized — 

His knot feels so — *crushed*, because Aramis is clenching *wildly* and screaming and screaming and tossing his head — 

*Sobbing* — 

He clenches more — 

Clenches more *tightly* — 

Porthos still can't *breathe* — and then Daddy bites *him*, his shoulder, breaks the *skin* — 

"*Daddy*!" 

"*Breathe*!" 

Porthos gasps — 

And gasps — 

And croons *desperately* for the *massive* feeling of the knot inside him, for the way it's *punishing* his pleasure-button with each rutting *slam*, for the way it makes him feel wide-open and safely *shut* all at once — 

He's never felt so — 

He's — 

He's in his *place*, Daddy's putting him in his *place*, and there's never been anything *like* that, there never *could* be anything like that, and this is the real reward to growing up, this is what it means to be *right*. Someone — 

This is what it means to be an *adult*, or something like it, someone worth their own opinions — because he *wouldn't* have known what to do with this a year ago other than beg for more *constantly*, but now he knows that he can cherish it and build on it and make — remake — his family. 

He — 

Oh, Daddy — 

And the feel of Daddy inside him is growling and need, hunger and need, the sense of both of *them* being perfect just as they are, the sense of *himself* as someone who won't ever let them go, won't ever let them get away from him, from his teeth and paws and cock and *knot* — 

Oh — 

And the *dream* of that, to be *hunted* by Daddy, chased down and driven flat, driven to the dirt, spread and licked open and *taken* — 

He'd do *anything* — and he knows Aramis would, *too*, because the feel of Aramis beneath him is all bliss and warmth and *thrumming*. 

He's gasping and moaning out prayers of *thanksgiving* — 

And it's so much better for Porthos to turn his head, for him to bite *down* on the back of Aramis's neck, hold it tight-tight-tight, hold their heads down *together* — 

Daddy *snarls* — 

Ruts *harder* — 

Snarls more and wraps his arms round Porthos's *chest* — 

So *tight* — 

So — 

But does *he* want to get *Porthos* pregnant? 

The thought has a weird-nasty thrill to it, on top of the *rough* pleasure of his thrusts, the sweet *crush* of his cock in Aramis — 

Is this what people think of the things Porthos thinks are completely normal? 

What — 

But Daddy had said the urges were for everyone he loved, everyone he knotted and *loved* — 

Porthos blushes *hard* — 

*Spasms* hard — 

Aramis cries out *louder* — 

Porthos can't keep *his* thrusts in rhythm, anymore — 

And Daddy snarls triumphantly and bites the back of Porthos's neck, fucks him harder, *harder* — 

Fuck, will he spend soon?

It's so good, so hot and good, so — 

Porthos *wants* it, wants his Daddy to fill him up and make him — 

(Oh, son. Those urges really are — well.) 

Daddy, I'm — 

(Don't apologize. I'm thinking the exact. Same. *Things*.) 

And thinking of that — 

Thinking of Daddy *wanting* that — 

Porthos spasms again and goes loose, *loose*, limp and hungry and *needy* and — 

"*Yes*," Daddy growls, breaking the bite only to bite him again, only to fuck him so hard, so dirty, so *raw* — 

So — 

Porthos bites Aramis again *helplessly* — 

Aramis screams and starts shuddering, jerking almost *convulsively* — he's spending again, he's — 

But there are no *scents* of spend. He — is he spending *dry*? 

(It *happens*, son. Especially when my good boys are very. Very. *Good*,) Daddy says, and shoves them both down *harder* —

Aramis *whines* and keeps *shaking* — 

Porthos can't stop biting him everywhere he can *reach* — 

Daddy is so — 

So *violent* inside him — 

(Your Uncle Laurent is just the same when he has me...) 

Porthos *slams* into Aramis — 

"OHN —" And then Aramis collapses — 

But Porthos is roiling, needing — 

He's barely even *fantasized* about Uncle Laurent — 

He's so *formal* and *fussy* — 

(Until. You get him. *Hot*.) 

*Fuck* — 

(Until you make him — see the world a new *way* — ah, I need you, I *need* you, I'll need you *forever*,) Daddy says, and squeezes Porthos's chest tighter — 

Porthos's *ribs* creak — 

(I imagine bending you over for him —) 

Porthos's cock twitches *hard* — 

He can't — he can't think anymore — 

(I imagine teaching him just the right ways to — to *spank* your cock —) 

"Unh —" And Porthos is still fucking Aramis, still — 

He can't stop anymore, he can't stop anything — 

His whole body belongs to Daddy — 

(I imagine teaching you to suck his long, fat cock — so human —) 

Daddy can do anything, have anything — 

(And then. I'll take you home to Kitos, our Kitos —) 

Porthos opens his mouth and lets the groans and croons fall out — 

(Do you think you can fit — fit his heavy bollocks in your mouth? Like a good boy?) 

Anything for his Daddy, anything, and please — 

Oh *please* — 

(And Reynard will suck your beautiful cock, love your beautiful cock, let you mount him as a dog —) 

And then Daddy can mount Porthos, take him, bruise him with — with the dog's bony legs — 

Daddy growls — 

And growls — 

(We'll both mount our Aramis as dogs...) 

Yes Daddy yes Daddy yes —- 

(As soon as my knot's gone down, and you've licked all his tears away, you'll mount him and *have* him —) 

Oh *God* — *Daddy* — *please* —

(Now, son. *Now*,) Daddy says, and shifts his teeth *sharp* — 

And bites his shoulder — 

And *holds* him while he ruts so hard and fast that it rattles the *teeth* in Porthos's head — 

That it makes Aramis croon *breathlessly*, limp and spent and given over to them, *helpless* — 

And Porthos thinks of doing this all night — 

Fucking Aramis's unconscious *body* — 

(And then. I'll. Fuck. *Yours*!) And Daddy bites *harder* — 

And Porthos howls and goes rigid and clenches and *screams* and spends *again*, filling Aramis and — 

How is there so much *more*? 

He can't — 

Oh, it *hurts* to spend like this — 

He's so hard — 

He's so *hot* — 

He's *burning*, aching and *burning*, and it feels like Daddy is making it all happen, controlling his body, his pleasure, his — 

His *everything* — 

And Daddy keeps *biting* — 

(Good *BOY*!) 

— until he doesn't. He breaks the bite to *nip* Porthos's *ear* — 

Porthos jerks and spasms and collapses *on* Aramis — 

And *Daddy* howls, triumphant and *wild* — 

And oh, hot — hot and wet *inside* him — 

Daddy's still shoving *in* — 

Porthos jerks *again*, because every urge in him tells him to lift his arse, have it all, *get* it all — 

It's his *Daddy's* — 

Aramis moans and mutters incoherently — 

Porthos pants and — 

Oh, the fucking is starting to *hurt* more, more *seriously* — 

No, he has to take it, he *has* to — 

He *whines* — 

Daddy *groans* — 

Growls — 

"Just — a little more — I just need you to take a little more, son —" 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Oh, son, oh, *son* —" Daddy growls and moves his hands to Porthos's shoulders — 

Clutches and groans and *works* his knot against Porthos's pleasure-button, which feels huge and swollen and knob-like. 

Porthos drops his head and grinds his forehead against the back of Aramis's neck — 

Aramis makes a soft questioning noise — 

Porthos will *take* it — 

And then Aramis is reaching for him inside, soothing him and stroking him and petting him — while his Daddy can't — 

While his Daddy needs to just — 

Have him. 

Porthos lets Aramis wrap him tight inside him and — breathes. 

And breathes. 

It's better, and he can feel the *pleasure* again, the shivery *rush* of Daddy rutting hard and *slow* into his own spend — 

Porthos's swollen *hole* — 

Porthos breathes, and lets himself float on the feelings just a little.

Eventually, Daddy slows to a *stop*, and — doesn't collapse. He leans in to *kiss* Porthos, and reaches down to stroke Aramis's hair. "My lovely boys. I can already feel that both of you would try *very* hard to disentangle yourselves and injure me if I tried to apologize, so I won't —" 

"This — this is *good*," Aramis says, mostly *into* the sheets. 

Porthos can't talk, yet, but he can agree. *Lots*. 

Daddy laughs. *He* doesn't sound exhausted. 

*He* sounds... like he could go again, actually. 

Aramis is one long *pause* beneath him. 

Porthos thinks about the fact that *Daddy* has only spent *once* — 

And Daddy laughs evilly and *slowly*, kneeling up and stroking over and over Porthos's back. 

*Possessively*. 

And like a man making *plans*. 

"Both of those things, yes," Daddy says, and stops laughing. "But those plans are for rather later than now. My boys need rest." 

"But —" Oh. He *can* talk.

Daddy laughs more — 

Porthos scowls a little — 

(Do not fret, my beautiful Porthos. I am reasonably certain that I have been fucked onto another sphere.) 

"Um. You're right here." 

(No, no, I am not.) 

Daddy laughs *hard* — 

"All right, *look*, Daddy —" 

"Yes, son? My beautiful, wonderful son who truly did start fantasizing about his father getting him up the duff?" 

"*You* said you were having the same fantasies!" 

"I did and I was, but, son, I've had nearly thirty-eight *years* to refine my perversions. You're an *infant*." 

"I am *not* —" 

"I'm sorry, you're right; you want to *have* my infants." 

"Nrk — uh. Fuck. Um. I think I'm cured of those urges, Daddy." 

Daddy snickers like a boy. "No, you're not." 

"I really am —" 

"Son."

"*What*?" 

"Have you thought about how much of your spend is inside Aramis, now? How much you've got plugged-up *tight* inside him?" 

"Oh, *shit* —" 

"How he can't get *away* to get *clean*?" 

"Fuck fuck fuck *fuck* —" 

"How he just has to lie here and *wait* until nature takes its *course* —" 

Porthos *whines* — 

"Until he's *full* of your squirmy little pups —" 

"I!"

"Oh my *God*, Daddy, I'm going to be sucking his nipples for *hours* when I can finally turn him *over*!" 

Daddy *wheezes* laughter —

"I am now even more happy to be on another sphere," Aramis says. 

"Oh — *shit* —" 

"Though I would like to state that all of my body is available to my Porthos at all times, for any reason." 

Porthos moans and twitches *weakly* — 

And Aramis sighs. 

Daddy laughs *more* — and then *also* sighs. "Oh, boys. You light up my existence like artillery dismantling a Spanish fort." 

Oh... "Thank you, Daddy," Porthos says, and blushes more. 

Aramis hums. "My Daddy is a romantic," he says, and sounds very pleased. 

"Your Daddy is besotted with both of you. Come, let's get ourselves turned a bit. We're going to have to crab-walk to the right side of the bed a little more, and then we can do a controlled topple onto our sides that'll only be *somewhat* painful and embarrassing for all of us." 

Porthos blinks — but. That really is the only way. It's not like they can all just stay like *this*.

Daddy and Porthos kneel up carefully to start the process, and, after a few minutes of wincing and cursing and yelping and barking and — 

"Please do not take my insides *with* you, beautiful Porthos!" 

— they manage the maneuver. 

"Perhaps we'll add this to the training regimen," Daddy says, snickering more. 

"I could see that helping, yeah," Porthos says. "Considering that my arse *and* my cock are in revolt." 

"I. Ow," Aramis says, and Porthos pulls him closer and — carefully — throws a leg over his own. 

"Better?" 

Aramis hums. "Much, beautiful Porthos. Simply do not move any part of your body for the next ten hours —" 

Daddy snorts and cuddles up to Porthos's back — 

"I have begun to grow concerned with Daddy's sense of humor," Aramis says. 

"Yeah, well, it's *concerning*. It always *has* been," Porthos says, and nuzzles into Aramis's hair. 

Daddy growls and nips Porthos's neck — 

"Unh —" 

"Am I going to have to teach my boys discipline?" 

Porthos's *knot* flexes, making him clench *violently* — 

*Both* he and Aramis *sob* — 

Porthos *clutches* Aramis and rocks helplessly — 

"*Porthos* —" 

"Shit — fuck — *fuck* — wait, no, I can stop — I can — stop," he says, and stops. 

And stays. 

And stays. 

And pants. 

Aramis pants, too. 

And Daddy is laughing again — he's just doing it *inside*. 

"We can still *hear* you, Daddy!" 

"And *feel* you," Aramis says. 

"I — mm. I really am going to have to get you boys in *shape*." 

"In —" 

"I!" 

"The moon hasn't even begun to set and you're already losing your *vigor*..." 

"You've been fucking us all bloody *night*!" 

Daddy presses his smile to Porthos's shoulder. "I haven't even started, son. 

"I feel very strongly that I have been... dared, Daddy," Aramis says.

Daddy smiles wider. "Do you, now." 

"Oh, yes. I feel, further, that I must *respond* to your dare." 

"You're a *very* responsive lad, son." 

Aramis gasps a little — and Porthos can *feel* him smiling, inside and out. "I thank you, Daddy." 

"You're welcome —" 

"Daddy." 

Daddy rumbles. "Yes, son?" 

"One day, I will make you *use* me so hard, so roughly, and so *thoroughly* that your balls will swing empty and aching and your big, fat cock will *wilt* at the very thought of more." 

Daddy rumbles *more*. "Well, then, son. I have one question." 

"Yes, Daddy?" 

"Will we be allowed to place wagers on this little dare? Have a bit of a flutter?" 

Aramis hums again. "My Daddy is a betting man?" 

"I've been known to take a chance, from time to time." 

"I see," Aramis says. "And what would you like the terms of this wager to be, Daddy?" 

Daddy laughs low and dark. "Should you not be able to... stay the course, you surrender yourself utterly to me for... a week."

"A week? To be your slave?" 

"Just so, son." 

Aramis shivers. "And if I win this wager?" 

"Then I let you do anything at all you wish with Porthos, no matter *how* untoward." 

"For a week?" 

"Hmm. I'm not sure if I know that many *healers*..." 

"*Oi* —" 

"... but yes." 

"Then agreed," Aramis says, snuggling back against Porthos, smiling and warm and thrilled — 

"Agreed, indeed," Daddy says, and *he* feels like a furnace inside, body and spirit. 

His *knot* gets bigger — 

Porthos has to *pant* — 

What would Daddy do with a *slave*? 

(You'll find out —) 

(I doubt it,) Aramis says, inside him, and he and Daddy *eye* each other across the expanse of their spirits. 

Like *predators*. 

Fucking hell. Is Porthos the meat in this sandwich? 

"Yes, son, you absolutely are, and you're delicious." 

"And very healthful," Aramis says. "I feel very renewed after my infusions!" 

"Infu —" Daddy splutters hard. 

Porthos *snickers* hard — 

And everything he can feel in Aramis is happy, warm, satisfied, safe, *settled*. 

*Home*. 

Perfect.

Porthos cuddles Aramis as close as he can and kisses his ear. "Love you, brother." 

"And I *you*," Aramis says. "I... both of you." 

Daddy gasps a little — 

Growls — 

They can all feel him *slamming* the kennel doors — 

"Good boys," he rumbles, after a long moment. "My beautiful, incredible boys."


	11. Not that he has anything but the purest, most altruistic interest in that... relief...

It takes two more days for Treville to make it back to the garrison with his boys — enough time for his boys to recover, if not for the bruises and bite-marks to look at all deniable, and enough time to start the process of getting Aramis kitted out. 

He'll be getting a wardrobe — including training clothes — that's tailored to fit, and a horse of his own, and everything else that is his due, but, for now, he has the basics. 

And Gabrielle is a beautiful, strong, spirited bay who Aramis fell in love with at first sight, and who loves Aramis right back. Well enough for the time being. 

Treville has made his petition to adopt the youth Aramis — directly to the King — and the clothing Aramis will need for that audience will arrive within the next three weeks, or heads will roll. 

It's not that he expects the boy-king to get around to seeing him — and away from his pleasures — anytime *especially* soon, but they'll *need* extra time to make sure the clothes are absolutely perfect. 

Only the best for his boys.

Right now, Aramis is helping the younger boys with their horsemanship, both because he's an excellent teacher and because there's no one available to train *him* in any of the things he needs to learn. 

That will change once Laurent is done with Treville. 

And — hopefully not *done* with him.

At present, they're standing on the catwalk together and studiously failing to talk. 

Treville is not going to pretend to — anything. He'd known Laurent knew as soon as he'd seen the man's *body* language, and — 

"It was Reynard. Who told me," Laurent says, softly. He sounds even less like the Captain than he usually does for their private conversations. 

Treville nods. "I would've told you as soon as it happened, but I knew that you would need to see me for this."

"Yes. I. Reynard..." Laurent shakes his head. "He said that Kitos had offered to travel here with him, for the first time since his retirement. To help break the *news* to me, brother." 

Treville nods again. That's just like the man. 

"I... don't know where to start." 

Treville frowns. "But you'd *like* to start?" And he turns to look at Laurent — 

And gets a *wounded* look in return. 

That — damn. "Inside?" 

(And, perhaps, inside,) Laurent says, and gestures for Treville to precede him into his office. 

Treville does just that, and — there are two chairs in front of Laurent's desk instead of just one. He raises an eyebrow and sits in the one on the left — 

And Laurent *immediately* takes the one on the right. "This is, in fact, this chair's sole purpose — brother." 

"I'm here." 

"Yes, you are, after spending the past three days —" Laurent *growls* and pinches the bridge of his nose. (Did you ever intend to follow my advice? Truly?) 

*Yes*! And — I *know* you can feel that — 

(I don't know what to *trust* —) 

Trust *me* — or — "No. No, I don't think, ultimately, that question matters, except in terms of whether or not you believe that I *respect* you." 

"I — I know you *do* —" 

"Do you know that I love you, Laurent?" 

Laurent stares at him desperately, *hungrily* for a long moment — it makes the grey in his beard and moustache seem to melt away — and then he says: "My mind is *driving* me back, again and again, to all those long nights we spent in my tent, when we were in the Army, and you were letting me hound you, night after night, with endless questions about your sexual *preferences*." 

Treville blinks — and coughs a laugh. "It seemed to take *years* to convince you that men *could* find other men attractive and still be fundamentally *sane*." 

"Yes, and I continue to find it ultimately unsurprising that it took us so long to make *love*, but — I was asking the wrong questions, brother." 

"I —" 

"You weren't making love with *men* then, brother. You were making love with *boys*, and adolescents. Correct? That's certainly who I saw you with, when I was watching." 

There is no way in any heaven that Treville should want to blush right now — but. "That's about the gist, Laurent, but — there were a *few* men, and you may have noticed a certain lingering attraction —" 

Laurent waves a hand — 

"*Don't* brush our relationship — and my relationships with Reynard and Kitos — off as irrelevancies," Treville growls. 

Laurent inhales sharply. "I never would, brother. I never *could*," he says, and shakes his head. "You were my *only* family for *years*, and I — no. You know all this. You *know*. Don't *distract* me!" 

Treville hisses through his teeth and raises a hand for peace — 

And they breathe at each other for a few moments. Just breathe. 

And then Treville nods. 

"I only wanted to focus on the fact that, in the *absence* of your primary loves — and we *were* absent — you turned, again and again, to lovers with whom you could — if you wished — take a parental role." 

"It was their choice, *too* —" 

"Was it? Even the ones you hired for an evening?" 

"Money breeds — and limits — choices. We already know that, too," Treville says, and pushes a hand back through his hair. "What do you want to know?" 

"I — was it *your* father? Did he... did he *change* you. Did he do something... were you raised in a way... ah, *hell*. How to even ask this *question*?" 

Treville gestures for peace again. "Consider it asked, and the answer is — no and yes." 

Another hungry look. 

Treville nods. "Like most of us from military families, I barely even *knew* my father until I was old enough to prove that I had some measure of competence with weapons, and that I could be taught still more. And then we had a brief and genial *friendship* as he prepared me for my own life in the Army — as much as was possible, between campaigns — and did his best to make sure I *kept* my dreams of being in the Army, as opposed to wanting to join his increasingly frequent trips to Court." 

"He didn't want you to advance — no, keep going, don't answer —" 

"He didn't care for that *kind* of advancement, beyond the minor bit of nobility he had bought for us with his military prowess, and he wanted to make sure I *never* cared for it. He did that well — especially since he continued the job in the letters he wrote to me once I was attached to my regiment, which were full of awful stories of Court and *wonderful* stories of soldiering. I sent him my own stories back, and... we got to know one another." 

And Treville pauses and looks at Laurent levelly. "I looked forward to his letters the way any boy looks forward to the letter of the person he loves and admires and *needs* the most, Laurent." 

"Oh — oh..." 

Treville smiles wryly. "He died before... before we could make something of our relationship that was more..." He shakes his head. "I don't know what the word is that I'm looking for here. Normal? Filial? *Correct*? I never felt anything but correct when I was in my bedroll with his letters, dreaming of his hard hands correcting my form as he taught me how to *fence*. Now ask your *next* real question." 

Laurent looks away, staring at the shelves and biting the inside of his lower lip. He's tapping at one knee with his long, deft fingers, and he's — squeezing his other hand into a brutal fist. 

"Laurent..." 

"I feel. I feel I may have already damned my sons." 

Treville inhales — 

Thinks about trying to comfort him — 

Thinks about everything he *knows* about his relationship with his sons — "You're very honest with them." 

"*You* have always been *excruciatingly* honest — you set the *tone* — I emulated — but. It's not as though I could ever imagine *lying* to my Olivier, my Thomas...." 

"No. They couldn't bear it, if they found out." 

"*Exactly*. They'd think I thought them too weak, too — too *untrustworthy* on some fundamental level —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"And yet it's the honesty, I think, that does the most harm." 

Treville growls. 

"I *agree* with that growl, brother. How could something so — so *right* — I would *never* go back and start *lying* to my *children*, or advise *you* to do that." 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "Then?" 

Laurent smiles ruefully. Beautifully. "I haven't the faintest clue. I have *asked*, as casually as I've been capable, about the honesty other parents provide to their children —" 

"It's negligible to *nonexistent*."

"Very true. And look how they turn out." 

"I'd rather bloody *not*." 

"*Very* true. And... Reynard was very clear about Porthos's happiness. His... intense *security* of self."

"You *should* speak to him for yourself." 

"I'll do that just to have time with him. I've missed that wonderful look he gets on his face when he's trying desperately not to tell me to get the stick out of my arse." 

Treville *snorts* — 

And Laurent sparkles at him, leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs, and folding his hands on his flat stomach. "Little brother. I have questions for you." 

Treville mirrors Laurent's pose. "I sincerely hope to have answers." 

Laurent nods. "What, in this case, is the definition of damnation?" 

"Harming our children's bodies or spirits, or causing them to become people who would *do* harm to the innocent." 

"How do we define the former?" 

"Harming their bodies: Doing more to them than they dearly wish for, and more than can be recovered from easily and with care." 

"Noted. And their spirits?" 

"Doing anything to them which denies them the opportunity to express *precisely* who they are as people. Doing anything to them which denies them their right to have needs, emotions — that sort of thing. You have to let them be *people* with you, not just adjuncts of your will, or living dolls. You have to love them for precisely who they are, and no one else. Not ever." 

"Oh — my boys are so..." And Laurent turns away again. 

Treville thinks about giving him a moment — 

Thinks about all of the good and bad reasons *not* to — 

Licks his *lips* — "Laurent...?" 

"They used to fight so much, you know. I'd started raising them *traditionally*, with Olivier *set* for the life of a courtier, being the first son, and Thomas being *set* for the life of a warrior, being the second..." 

"I remember. They *loathed* it." 

Laurent laughs, still looking away. "It was Kitos who whalloped me for that —" 

"He's good at that." 

"He truly is," Laurent says, laughing more and turning back. "He pointed out that the reason *why* they fought like cats and dogs was because they each had what the other wanted more than anything. And it was so brilliant, so simple... I let him give the children the good news, that they had been given a reprieve from 'on high'. 

"I was listening from around the corner. They cheered and danced and Thomas — he made up an impromptu little *song* about his Uncle Kitos that he and Olivier *danced* to *around* Kitos." 

Treville grins. "That's amazing." 

"Isn't it?" *Laurent* grins. "The best thing is that Thomas still sings it, sometimes, in the quietest of whispers when Kitos comes to call." 

"Oh, I *love* it!" 

"The *other* best thing, and you must not quibble, is that, every now and again, when Olivier is practicing his footwork while Kitos is in a room, he will contrive to work in a circle around him." 

Treville slumps back against the chair. "They're perfect." 

"They are. They are. And — I want them to stay that way. To *always* stay that way. How... how do I do that?" 

"And have what you want?" 

Laurent coughs a laugh. "Even *without* having what I want. I — I fear them losing themselves so *much*. I fear the world *hurting* them, tarnishing them, *breaking* them —" 

"Did it break you?" 

"Multiple times, in multiple ways —" 

"*Laurent*." 

"*Brother*. I am not — all of a *piece*. I have been *shattered* by loneliness, by all the times I've watched you *run* from me, to be with Honoré before he was Kitos, to be with Kitos and Reynard —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"I had *time* to think about the hungry looks you used to give me, to think about them and put them into a *context* I could understand — and decide that what they *truly* meant was that you wished a *dalliance* with the curious *oddity* of a soldier —" 

"For fuck's sake —" 

"I have grown out of that," Laurent says, quietly and firmly and *wryly*. 

Treville pants and *stares*. 

"I have grown out of that," Laurent says, again, "but first I grew out of childhood happiness and innocence." 

Treville frowns. "You hide from me too much." 

"Perhaps you search me too little." 

Treville growls low and *rifles* through Laurent, finding — yes, old pain, old shame, old self-*disgust* — 

Old *desire* for *Treville* Laurent had been convinced would never be returned in anything like a *loving* way — 

Until that day in his library. 

Treville wants to warm the memories in his *hands*. 

Instead... 

Instead, he looks in on Laurent looking in on his sons, and on the way *Olivier* looks in on Thomas every night, despite the fact that there's barely a year between them in age — 

And on the way Thomas had helped Olivier with his dancing because they *both* knew it would help Olivier with his fencing footwork, and Thomas's dark blond curls had fallen in his eyes as he'd laughed at Olivier's studied clumsiness — 

At Olivier's studied *buffoonery* — 

He'd tripped them *both* — 

And then they'd both gone to the butler to learn how to repair Thomas's dancing slippers — 

They'd spent the day together, and it was only one among many, and Laurent is acutely aware that they'd only had that happiness because of another man's good sense. 

Not his own. 

And now the fears make much, much more sense. 

(Do they?) 

You don't trust yourself. 

(I said that in the first —) 

You didn't say that you didn't trust yourself to be able to provide for and maintain their happiness — or make them happy, at all.

Laurent's wince is... too much. 

Treville steps out of Laurent's memories, stands, takes Laurent's hand, and hauls him out of the chair and into a hug, squeezing him tight. "Brother..." 

"I make you happy, when you let it happen." 

"You make me happy every time I think of you." 

Laurent sighs and shudders. "I make Marie-Angelique happy." 

"She loves you madly." 

"This is even comprehensible — we have such good conversations —" 

"You don't understand why your sons love you." 

"Olivier — I know why he respects and admires me. Thomas is so brilliant, such a wonder — they both are, truly — but I always find myself *lecturing* them —" 

"Perhaps they enjoy listening to you talk, brother." 

"*No* one likes that!" 

"*I* like that. Your *wife* likes that —" 

"The boys here —" 

"Are, if you'll notice, *absolutely nothing like your boys*. Not even Porthos. *Especially* not Porthos." 

Laurent stops breathing for a moment. 

Treville wonders what's wrong — and then also stops breathing — and then stops *that*. "I'm... not actually trying to build your confidence up so you can then use that confidence to seduce your sons." 

"Are you *quite* sure." 

"... yes." 

"Because —" 

"Laurent —" 

"— it certainly seems like —" 

"Please don't —" 

"— a thing you might feel moved to —" 

"All *right* —" 

"— given that you'll need someone to invite to your dinner parties now —" 

"*Laurent* —" 

"— hesitate to even *imagine* the seating arrangements —" 

"I never *have* stabbed one of my brothers before —" 

"— but the prospect is becoming more attractive by the moment...?" And the smile in Laurent's voice is sly and — wonderful. 

Treville snorts hard and kisses his cheek. 

Laurent kisses *his* cheek, and the corner of his mouth, and his lips. "My beautiful brother. I — I'm not going to seduce them." 

"All right." 

"Not least because I've no idea how to go about *doing* that —" 

"That's *fair* —" 

"And —" Laurent steps away and paces a little. "I'm not going to ask you *how* — oh, God —" 

"As an aside," Treville says quietly, "some negotiable amount of the time we spend in private study and contemplation —" 

*Laurent* snorts — 

"— can also be spent in discreet... discussion of your fantasies," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows.

"My..." 

Treville raises his eyebrows higher.

Laurent *swallows*. "Do you... you mean. You mean I could... relieve myself with you."

"Yes, brother. Always." 

Laurent pants — *pants* — "Is that — is that — there has to be — some sort of obscenity —" 

"Perhaps. But there is also, as you said, relief." 

"Oh — please." 

Treville inclines his head. "Of course." 

"When." 

"I have to help Aramis and Porthos a little bit longer — how much did Reynard tell you about Porthos's new powers?" 

Laurent blinks. "Everything, I believe. There are sexual and/or romantic difficulties?" 

"Potentially very dangerous ones. Porthos doesn't have full control of his strength, yet — or full control of his shift. You can see —" 

"I *can*, yes. I — how did you...? Who were you with?" 

Treville shows his teeth. "Absolutely no one, brother. You were my first... after." 

"Oh — oh, *brother*..." 

"It's —" 

"Did it shatter you." 

Oh, Laurent...

(I believe that's an answer...) And Laurent moves close again, cupping Treville's face so *gently* with his hard hand. 

Treville sighs and leans into it, suddenly more than a little tired. 

(What can I do to ease *you*?) 

The options are limitless, and any number of them are now labeled "Fucking My Throat Violently While Talking About Fucking Your Sons Much *Less* Violently" — 

Laurent *chokes* — 

"— but I can sense that Aramis and Porthos are about to do something untoward in a powder shed, and, if we walk slowly enough — "

"We can catch them _in flagrante delicto_ and scar them for life before inflicting a light and educational punishment detail?" 

"Precisely, brother." 

"*Excellent* — wait. Weren't we supposed to *not* do that?"

"I've forgotten entirely; let's *go*," Treville says, and kisses Laurent's palm before adjusting his cloak just so — 

Laurent adjusts his — 

They grin with rueful *evil* at each other — 

And set out to face the day.

end.


End file.
